#this does not mean that you are wrong for not reading

[stargrltara]

𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒂

·.✧ ✦ ✧.·

MDNI 18+

“ 𝒹𝓇𝓊𝑔𝓈 𝓈𝓊𝒸𝓀 𝒾𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝓊𝓅,

𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓋𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒶 𝒾𝒸𝓎𝓈

𝒹𝑜𝓃’𝓉 𝓉𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝑒 𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽,

𝓉𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓃𝒾𝒸𝑒𝓎𝓈

𝒹𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓇𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝓃𝑒𝒸𝓀,

𝒹𝒾𝒶𝓂𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓈 𝒾𝒸𝑒𝓈 ,,

·.✦.·

Jason was typically a rough man. He’s 6 foot, broad shoulders and the most sluttiest waist, massive biceps that he loves to wrap around your neck. He was dominant, obsessive, mean even. He marks you up, claims you as his. He uses his hard-earned money to buy you pretty jewels and diamonds that he wraps around your neck and wrists. He loves to please you.

So when you pleaded to ride him, to please him, to make him sit back while you’d ride his dick and watch him take it.. he just dismissed you with a harsh scoff.

“—you’d be beggin’ me to take charge after 3 minutes, doll.” his tone was gruff as he undermined your strength and abilities. Sure, Jason was massive compared to you, he even does little tasks like reach for the top shelf or carry heavy groceries for you, but only because he’s so persistent in being your knight in shining armour.

“You’re too cocky.” you muttered and shifted in your seat on the bed; pouting your glossy lips in annoyance whilst he glared up at you from the book he was reading. His emerald eyes narrowed, irises glistening from the city lights shining a vibrant hue into his sharp features. “Watch it.”

Your pout grew, and your arms crossed over your chest. You were so eager to prove him wrong, to prove that you could ride him without your thighs cramping 2 minutes in. So, you grabbed his book from his hands, throwing it to the carpet-clad ground, earning a short stammer from him. “what—“

“I was reading that.” You dismissed his low mutter and climbed onto his lap, his legs already spread with a playful smirk on your lips. His hands immediately flew down to your hips, gripping them firmly. “Ah. I see.” he nodded, a smirk now forming on his lips too, but he was still skeptical, a hint of doubt in your ability to be on top. “Roles reversed, tough guy.” you raised a brow achingly, and leaned into his neck.

The warmth of your breath fanned his skin, driving chills down his body and straight to his cock. His fingertips dug into your skin, trying to restrain himself from pouncing onto you. You planted soft, deliberate kisses on his neck, his throat, and licked a stripe to his ear.

Sudden adrenaline rushing through your veins, burning your loins as you whisper into his ear. “—gonna make you feel so good, honey.” you chuckled softly before placing another kiss on his earlobe and moving your hands up to cup his face, his cheeks slightly warm. “Careful.” He grunts, his voice tight and strained as he looks up at you, his eyes practically burning into yours.

“..could end your little game whenever I want.” You hum in response, bringing your head up to glare at him. Your hands slide up to your waist, where his palms hold you down securely, and you remove them, pinning his arms on either side of his head with a bold, mischievous grin on your lips. “But you won’t.”

His lips part at your sudden confidence, your bold demeanour you move his hands from your body now restraining him completely. But he’s also curious to see where this goes, to see how far you can push yourself before he has to step in and take control..

You grind your hips on his lower abdomen and your breath hitches when you begin to feel his length harden beneath you. The sensation of you grinding against his makes him lightly buck his hips in response, but he manages to keep himself mostly in control, at least for now. His brows furrowed, he looks almost pissed off at both you and himself that he’s just allowing you to take control like this, falling into your trap.

Your fingers wrap around his wrists as you grind down harder on him, innocent eyes now filled with an intoxicated ember. Your head leans down, kissing his collarbones, tracing the bone with your tongue earning a sharp groan to erupt from his throat. “You— you’re a goddam tease..”

You chuckle softly, lifting your head to glare at his state, trying to hide how much you’re pleasuring him right now, trying to hide his vulnerability. “..gonna have you whimperin’ , Jay.” You warn slyly while you reach for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and off of him with ease.

Your fingertips trace his toned abs, each crevice and dip. Each time you come in contact with his skin, a jolt runs through his veins; hunger and lust. He murmurs lowly, “We’ll see about that.” but there’s a hint of doubt that he’ll be able to hold it in.

You lay sweet open mouth kisses from his chest down to his stomach, his happy trail which you adored and then the waistband of his sweatpants whilst he glares down at you in awe. You leisurely pull down his pants, taking your sweet time before taking your own shirt off. You hooked your digits into the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down just enough to reveal him fully, sliding it down his thighs. His cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, the sheer size intoxicating your mind, making a buzz corrupt your loins.

Your head leans down to lay a soft, delicate kiss on his mushroom tip, causing him to jerk his hips towards you. “Eager are we?” you purr lowly, scoffing at his impatience. Bringing his fingers up your back, fingertips brushing against your soft skin waving electricity down your spine as he unhooked your bra. He sucks in a short breathe, his chest heaving with anticipation, “mmgh— no.” his voice was strained, like he was biting back a moan.

You hold his shaft in your hands, stroking the girth while laying open mouthed kisses on the sides. Each kiss earning a shakey sigh from him. You spat down on his tip, watching the saliva rush down to his pelvis, seeping into his skin. The action making his head spin as he ached for more, ached for your tight cunt to squeeze him, to cage him in.

Your thumb ran across his tip, a shudder jolting in his legs. You smirked, a sly, taunting smirk. Your hair retreated, before you moved your fingertips across the waistband of your panties, peeling them off your skin whilst glaring into his hungry eyes, putting on a little show for him.

You crawled onto his lap, sucking in an easing breathe, “Gonna prove you so wrong..” you hummed before sinking down on his girth. You’re not gonna lie, he was massive. 8 inches, so wide with two veins running down the side, pulsating as your walls squeezed him in. His hands gripped onto your sides firmly, keeping you in place, “—Im gonna fuck your guts out when we’re done with this.” he scoffed smugly.

Your breath was shakey, this angle made him feel so deep inside of you. You were only a few inches in, but you could already feel yourself backing out, but it’s too late, you have to prove him wrong.

Your hands ran up his chest as you sunk down fully on his cock, and a guttural moan left his throat when he felt your pussy warming up so nice, his precum and your juices mixing inside of you. Your fingers were tangled in his hair as you found the strength to bounce lightly, not too fast, you didn’t want to tire yourself out too quick.

“—ah..” Jason breathed out, his grip on your hips tightening, almost bruising as it took everything in him not to just flip you over and fuck your guts so hard until you were screaming his name.

Your pace grew faster, and his sighs turned into primal groans. He found himself moving your hips, adjusting you to his desired speed as he moved you back and forward on his cock. His digits dipping into your skin, colouring them in painfully beautiful maroon marks. Your hands moved down to cup his face as you leaned in, a sloppy kiss on his parted lips.

He moaned into the kiss, the sensation forming a pool in your stomach, your cunt growing slicker. You pushed his head closer to yours as you deepened the kiss and he felt the need to push his tongue past your lips and explore your mouth. You sucked in his tongue so perfectly, before pulling away to catch air.

You were grinding down harder on him since you felt his cock twitch inside of you, knowing he was close. “Come on, baby.” you moaned, voice of an angel though the contrasting sounds of skin slapping and slick noises filled the void of the bedroom. His groans were now moans, lustful, raw, pornographic moans.

Your mixed juices were seeping down his cock, now pooling on his pelvis. The adrenaline hit you, and you didn’t even feel your thighs burning from bounces so hard onto his cock. Your walls fluttered around him so perfectly, deserving another moan from Jason’s lips; the sound so foreign yet so satisfying, “..fuck..”

He sat up, his face now in line with your bouncing tits and he took one into his mouth, with a grunt, lapping at the sensitive bud before taking it out with a ‘pop’ and repeating with the other. You gasped, eyes glued shut in pleasure.

The sounds grew filthier and slicker, and you were both close. He was whimpering, moaning into your ear as he was so aching for release, his thighs trembling, “..please baby, don’t stop—“, so eager to release himself inside of you. “So close, jay.. “ You wrapped your arms around his shoulders before grinding so hard onto him, gasping his name; you were seeing stars, literally. A loud moan escaped your lips, while he groaned gruffly and his head flew back. “oh— fuck..!”

His seed emptied inside of you, and your cum spilled out of your cunt mixing with his. You were both panting, but he looked a mess. Hair scruffy, emerald eyes hooded and breathing like an animal in heat. He grabbed the back of your head by your hair and shoved you into a filthy, sloppy kiss. It was passionate, and your saliva was leaking down his chin onto his chest.

He grunted as you pulled out of him, now resting on his lower abdomen, head nestled in his neck, laying light kisses on the skin. The other marks you left on his skin now showing up more prominently. “—let’s go again.” you muttered lowly, hint of humour in your voice.

His voice was strained, still panting roughly; he was completely worn out as you milked him dry. “Uhh..” His hands drew circles on your ribcage. Clearly defeated by the way you just rid him like there was no tomorrow.

“Give me a few minutes to.. recharge.”

·.✧ ✦ ✧.·

[fitero2306]

@tiredthembo read the tags. I audibly giggled because uhh..... like the trust people put in stem majors??? wild. like yeah guys my maths major friend got the mass of my cat and divided it by the weight of an avocado and them belonging to such a prestigious faculty as a maths major makes it very reputable. just that it reminds me of times when my friends go to ME? when they've got smth wrong with their body? like yeah I told you to not go under trees in may/June because you'd get carpet bombed by ticks it does NOT mean I can identify if the tick you got from that tree gave you Lyme disease.

being an adult means I can use my big boy money (which is supposed to go towards stupid things like rent or food but who the hell does that) to force people to look at Melly.

look at her. she’s simply so Shaped

[luveline]

Ohh for your consideration, Hotch and a chubby ditzy/dreamer reader, and the idea of him saying something like “you’re so soft” while getting a little handsy with the double meaning of like, “your body is so soft/lovely and I’m in love with you” and also “I feel hardened after so many years of witnessing the cruel capacity of mankind and yet you make me feel soft/hopeful with your good heart and etc” and reader is none the wiser and is just like “I’m glad he can appreciate my body etc that’s so nice”

I’m obsessed with your Hotch loving on chubby reader if you can’t tell😭I read it whenever I feel bad about my body(often)🥲reading your works is like comfort from a friend and I love you miss jade❤️❤️❤️

“Can you do that thing you do?” you ask softly. 

Aaron wraps an arm around you casually. “I’d love to,” he says, pressing his chin into your forehead, “but I’ve no idea what thing you mean. But as soon as you tell me…” 

“With my ear?” 

Aaron hums in understanding, curling his arm upward, fingers vying for your earlobe. It’s an absentminded touch, hard to describe; he’s not rolling it or tugging it, just sort of touching it, but it makes you shiver with pleasure and curl further into his chest. 

Aaron stops you from disappearing into his neck. “What do I get in return?” 

“This isn’t given just ‘cos you like me?” you ask. 

“Nope.” He presses a nice kiss under your jaw. “This is ‘cos you asked me to, but I never said it was for free.” 

“Alright.” You let your fingertips run down his back like gentle rain. “What do you want, honey?” 

“What do I want? Everything.” 

You laugh near his ear, and it’s like– like spun sugar, something delicate and sweet, it drives him crazy. He has no choice but to let his hand slip behind your ear and neck, to hold you in place as he kisses beneath your jaw. His free hand trails down over your chest, stopping at your ribs, thumb pressing into the plushness there as it usually does. 

“You’re so–” He laughs to himself under his breath. “You’re soft,” he whispers. 

You grin. “Thanks. It’s nice that you like it.” 

“Who wouldn’t?” 

“Don’t act like I’m everybody’s type.” 

Aaron smarts. “That’s not what I meant, and you’re still wrong. Who wouldn’t like this?” he asks, letting his hand inch up to bordering impolite territory under your chest. 

“Well, what did you mean then?” you ask, just the hint of a pout on your lips. 

Aaron decides to kiss it off. “Don’t be like that,” he murmurs, warming your lips with his breath, “you’re perfect, it’s just not what I meant.” 

You kiss him back with a distracted little hum before pulling away. “So I’m soft in some other way?” 

“You are. It’s like… like coming home to… I don’t know, like fresh linens.” 

You wrinkle your nose, but it’s not a bad expression, far from disgusted. “It’s nice to have washed sheets. It feels luxurious.” 

He laughs. It’s not like he knew what he meant when he said it beyond the overwhelming feeling of you, but you’re not far off the mark. “You’re not like anybody else I’ve ever met,” he says, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the bridge of your nose. He stays there with his eyes closed for far too long. 

When he pulls away, you’re smiling, as you so often are. 

“Soft girl,” he says, pinching your chin between a careful thumb and forefinger. “But don’t tell anyone I said that.” 

“Oh, I won’t.” You cross your fingers plainly. “Your secrets are safe with me, honey.” 

[psychemochanight]

It makes me laugh a lot that whenever references are made to certain qualities of Dick that his other brothers also have, there is no shortage of people who say that "they are giving him qualities of *insert random sibling* to praise Dick".

Dude, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but actually, a lot of those abilities were first Dick's and then they were given to other batkids, shit, even his friends and partners were passed on to his siblings-

In one fic does it say that Dick writes or something related to his stories about Batman and Robin? "That was Jason, not Dick."

Someone makes a HC of Dick drawing? "That's not Dick, the artist is Damian."

Eh... Dick was literally a writer and (if I'm not wrong) even a comic book illustrator in a canonical way, using his adventures with Batman as a reference-

Same when they say that only Jason was the star student... No, Dick was ALWAYS a star student, outstanding and quite dedicated too. The only thing they were not alike in was that Dick was not a total lover of literature, but that does not mean that he did not read, he did, he even read things that were advanced for his age, and he also makes references to readings, showing that, in fact, he also read... He's just more about movement than staying still and reading.

"In YJ they gave Tim's skills to Dick".

The suit maybe, but the abilities? First they were Dick's, then they were given to Tim.

Dick was always an excellent detective, only more intuitive than methodical, but he was always the best behind Batman, at times even on par.

And he's always been a very competent hacker, too. Yes, not on Barbara's level, but he was always pretty good with technology.

"Him not getting crushed by Cass is so ooc".

No? Dick was always an excellent fighter. Again, he uses a very different style than other members of his family, but he was always excellent in fights.

I will never tire of discussing these things. I understand that many things nowadays are not shown much anymore, since the writers focus more on his leadership ability than detective skills, and it is also obvious that not everyone will want to read all the comics, there are too many- I haven't even read them all and I don't plan to, it's a hobby, not my life- lol

But yes, I'm still going to always say this, that his "brothers' abilities" are actually Dick's, and that does NOT mean that his siblings don't have them too, they just aren't the only ones.

[ippipo]

self aware caleb

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | smutty stuff | part 4 | part 5

it was merely sexual attraction. from the moment he saw you, he felt attracted towards you sexually. you were funny, witty, so you, and god, it hurt. he swore it was just sexual attraction.

it was a sick obsession. a throwback to his in-game personality that made him easily vulnerable to these situations. he just wanted to keep you with him all the time. but good lord, did it hurt him when you were down. he hurts for you. but he kept telling himself that it was just obsession, infatuation at least.

but the more he spoke with you, the realisation dawned upon him that he was down bad. you haunt him every night before he goes to sleep and bless him like food in famine every morning he wakes up. it was addicting. he wanted all of you and every part of you.

and it truly, absolutely, devastatingly hit him when his desire to be next to you increased tenfold. he needed you so much, it made him want to curl up into a box small enough to suffocate him and take him away from all the pain he was enduring being away from you.

so he decided to risk it all and come to you. he didn't realize he needed you that badly until that one moment when you were talking to him as usual, laughing by yourself while reminiscing something funny from your childhood. and during that time, a question popped up that made him wonder.

"you can't come here right? does that mean you'll go back to mc if this thing, you know, stops?"

and the answer was as clear as day.

he should.

but not a single inch of him wanted to. he only wanted to be with you. when all your life has been dedicated to loving someone against natural will, it crumbles in mere seconds when you find out it wasn't meant to be. and during that period of feeling inadvertently lost when you find someone who gives you a sense of self and structure to your meaningless life, you cling onto them.

you cling so tightly that the mere thought of finding someone else or going back to the life you used to have seems more scrambled than you'd expect. to caleb, it felt like a million puzzle pieces had been scattered everywhere and when he realized your existence, everything fell back into place.

but when he did try going back to his life, skyhaven, mc, and every other thing related to his past, it felt like something had ruthlessly ruined his puzzle, throwing around all the pieces left and right so he could never rearrange them.

this uncomfortable reality of his prompted him to escape, pull every string that he could and fight against the odds of time and space to reach you. it wasn't easy at all, but he knew it was worth it.

he watches as you laugh with your friend and sylus, and he wishes it was him in their place. the dull ache in his chest lingers as he notices how your phone remained untouched throughout the night, contemplating whether to text you or not.

the ache began spreading like wildfire the more he waited. and he decided it was time to stop stalling.

kale 🥬

go to your room

you spring up from your seat when you hear the sound of a notification, not expecting it so late at night. you look at andy who was passed out, and sylus was no longer visible on the screen.

your heart drops when you read the name of the sender, but it wasn't the time to wallow anymore.

you

what the fuck?

where have you been?

why are you texting me now?

you couldn't help the way your hands were shivering as you type. "what is wrong with you, caleb?" you whisper to yourself as your eyes well up again.

kale 🥬

im sorry ill answer everything but js go to your room please

you

fine

and you get up to leave the living room, ignoring the way your heart was pounding against your chest and a lump in your throat that made it difficult to breathe.

"hey," an eerily familiar voice greets you in the dark. you look around frantically only to see nothing but pitch black.

you flinch when a hand grabs you by the shoulder and pulls you close to a body. a tall, lean, muscular body. you could feel his chest, a husky vanilla cologne filling your senses, overwhelming you and making you sensitive to everything around.

you try not to scream, and you didn't. everything felt oddly alright. nothing out of place, as if you were expecting it already, expecting someone already.

"did you miss me?" the damning voice whispers so close to your ear, sending a chill down your spine and straight to your core, arousal pooling. but at the same time, your body screamed to react violently, make it known that you were upset and angry.

and so, you turn around to face him, and push him by the chest. "what the fuck, caleb?!" you whisper-yell. he didn't budge at all, and your fingers lingered over his chest a little longer than you intended them to, but this was not the time to feel horny because you were freaking out.

you close the door behind you and everything becomes even darker. you locate yourself in front of him and grab his collar. "tell me what's happening. why are you here—no, how are you here? d-do you know how long i've waited for you to talk to me? not even a single text from you for so fucking long," you couldn't stop your voice from quivering as you punch his chest in anger, not impactful enough apparently with how he didn't wince at all.

he brings his hand towards your face to caress your cheek but you slap it away. "don't fucking touch me."

you gasp when you realise what you had just said, hands retracting to your sides. the pained look in his eyes made it so very clear. "i'm sorry, i-i didn't mean that," you quickly try to explain. nevertheless, he shoots a sad smile towards you and caresses your cheek. the warmth in his touch makes you lean towards his hand, closing your eyes to consume the sensation unconsciously.

caleb watches as you make yourself home in his touch, blushing at the hazy look on your face. 'control, control, control,' he tells himself, not wanting to take you then and there right in that moment while you were vulnerable. "i'm sorry, i didn't mean to.......leave you. it took longer than i expected to figure out the way to reach your world," he finally gives you the explanation you wanted.

"is that why you couldn't talk to me at all?" your voice carried a kind of distress that made it very evident that you suffered in his absence.

caleb nods, making you sigh. "and here i thought you no longer wanted me."

he slides his arm around your waist and pulls you closer towards him gently. his thumb drew circles on your side. his other arms reaches out to your face and his fingers brush your hair behind your ear. though you couldn't see him properly, except that he was pale as fuck and practically a glow stick in the dark, you could make out his smile.

"i've waited for so long to hold you like this," he whispers softly. he could only wish that you didn't hear the way his heart was hammering against his ribcage as you snuggled into him. "mhm, me too," you mumble as you rest your head on his shoulder.

you flinch when you hear caleb wince as your hand slides around the back of his waist. curious, you let your hand wander around that area once more and you don't ignore how his body tenses up. choosing to not comment on it since you just met for the first time, you let it be for now. but you weren't going to let it go until you receive an answer.

[ultramaga]

a) There's no link to the original post, let alone some archive. We have no idea what he said, or even if he corrected himself later, or even if this is an outright lie. Leftists have a terrible relationship to honesty as the foundational statement is "Truth is a Social Construct". b) The ADL and Israel say it wasn't the Nazi salute, despite the ADL being incredible sensitive to anything vaguely right wing - It's ok to be right, the ok symbol, etc. c) linking to a frame rather than the full unedited video is a Coolsville tactic that makes me inclined to assume the author is a Leftist who outright knows they are lying - I could link to countless other left wing figures in the same position. "jews have been sounding the alarm about the rise of antisemitism" Yes, there certainly are a lot of people killing jews lately - and they are supported by Leftists. And opposed by conservatives. Huh.

Guess we're just skipping over the entire movement that is dedicated to exterminating jews now.

"antisemitism is a canary in the coal mine for fascism" It's unconnected. Japanese fascists did not give a fuck, and if anything helped protect jews. Mussolini said that the Nazi obsession with race as a distraction, but later tried to suck up to the Nazis when they turned out to be more successful. And the communist persecution of jews was notorious.

Plus, you seem to be skipping over two thousand years of antisemitism that occurred before fascism had existed.

A fascist jewish state would not be a contradiction in terms - and many Leftists already claim Israel is fascist. Being jewish doesn't make you an expert, it makes you jewish. As many historians pointed out, there were many members of the Nazi Party who were ethnically jewish.

The tests were argued about endlessly because separating jews and germans was a nightmare - the two groups had mingled and merged*.

The Leftist claim that there is a racial hierarchy, and certain people are intrinsically superior on topics simply by birth sounds very familiar. Race. Ism. Race. Ism. Gee, I wonder if that could be shortened? It sounds like a bad idea in any case. *

Addendum: So I had a look at the source - and he's a Leftist. As such, he doesn't believe in Truth to begin with. If your starting point is that there is no objective reality, then there is no chance of honesty. The dude constantly proclaims he is THE holocaust historian, and denies any opposing views exist.

So classical education is "alt-right" - which is an undefined buzzword term used by Leftists to shutdown thought. Nah, bitch, classical education was around for the last two thousand years. To decide that only a Nazi would want to read about Roman history is a typical Leftist tactic, because they hate historicallyeducated people, such folk know that they are wrong, they want INNDOCTRINATED people, which is why he obsesses endlessly about the need to purge home schooling. So what other dirty tricks does he use?

"trad christian"??? Sorry, but almost all christians are trad christians. The few american christians calling for the transing of kids are a tiny minority.

Catholics and Orthodox are the vast majority. His contempt for "trad christians" is typical for a Leftist, sure, but to use the term whilst claiming academic prowess as historian just means that you despise history, and love propaganda and historical revisionism instead.

I could go on, but pronouns in the bio is a bit of a give-away, and I noticed posts on "whiteness" and how architecture is "white-coded" and ... this man is clearly just another fascist, they just have their racism directed at different targets.

jews have been sounding the alarm about the rise of antisemitism and neo-nazi rhetoric around the world for years now, and have been largely dismissed by all sides of the political spectrum. they’re playing the victim, they’re exaggerating, they’re lying, they’re a distraction from other more important issues, etc etc.

i hope this can be a wakeup call for many. if this is shocking to you, i urge you to find jewish voices and creators to follow. antisemitism is a canary in the coal mine for fascism and jewish people are the ones most equipped to recognize it and oppose it.

we will all need each other more than ever for what’s to come. make sure the coalitions and networks you build include jewish people too.

[stellarshifter]

✨ Pst? Y'okay? I saw you have a mental breakdown in the corner (Me too, babe, me too)

Agh...shiftok ruin your vibe? Spreading bullshit? C'mere. I got ya.

✨ BREAKDOWN OF MISINFO

1. "Your script might not all happen, or be in that reality."

Like huh???

Scripting, infallible, or meaningless?

Oh babies... Scripting is infallible. Wanna know why? It's literally a GPS for your awareness to shift to the reality that all of your chaotic (and probably very fun) notes are very real in! Like, c'mon, who would even script if it meant nothing like that???? I wouldn't waste my precious time... I could be looking at vintage shops around town. Like seriously, no.

2. "You need a method to shift"

Bitch please. Do I need to astral project and beat your ass? I'll do it. Don't test me.

Look, methods are fun and all. But that's it! They're fun and can help you become aware! But that's all they are. You don't have to even to work on your subconsious. Know why? That bitch ain't catching a ride with you! You just gotta be aware. Just shift your focus.

3. "You gotta stay hydrated.." bleh bleh I don't even remember the rest.

Bullshit. Sure you should stay healthy and hydrated for you! But that's nothing to do with shifting. This vessel's priorities don't matter in terms of shifting or not!

4. "You can't age up/down that's immoral!"

...I need a minute... I dont wanna commit arson.

Who the fuck thinks they're so intilted to tell others what they can't shift to be?? You need to fucking chill. Aging up or down doesn't matter because you are literally shifting to a reality where you're that age. You will have that mentality unless you script you don't. For fucks sake, stop.

5. "You can't shift to where you're a different ethnicity/gender/sexual orientation, that's disgusting"

Again... who gave you the right? Hm? I'll wait.

Unless you're being a weird fetishist creep. Then you're good, babe. And for all of this, once again. There's infinite realities where you're all different enthcities, genders, and sexual orientations. There's nothing wrong with shifting there either!

6. "Respawning is unethical"

Okay, this started due to people misunderstanding respawning as something it is not! It is not suicide. You people need to chill on TikTok. Swear to god you fear mongers!

Respawning is just cutting ties with this reality. Which lets be honest? In its state? For the love of God, me too, honey. Me too. The only difference between respawning and permashifting is that you'll never remember this reality. There's no harm. Okay?

7. "Permashifting is not okay"

As a permashifter, fuck you. You intilted bitches spewing bullshit because you come from different circumstances.

You have no clue what people are going through, and even if they live perfect lives, you are 1000000% valid permashifting. Go home, babies. You deserve it!

8. "Shifting shouldn't be used for escapism"

Look most of us were day dreamers? Right? Right?

I was a kid with a WILD ASS imagination. I mean wild, and I come from a not so cool environment. I used shifting as escapism when I first started. And y'know what? That's okay! If you are just wanting to leave to get a break! Do it! No one can stop you. There's no shifting police.

Which..gets me to this one.

9. "The shifting police will find you"

Bitch please. Shut up. My brother in christ, what fanfic you reading?

Shifting police do NOT exist (unless you want them to. You do you)

Seriously no one. I mean no one, not even me. Not even the holiest of holiest can stop you. We live in a multiverse that does not run by morals set up by shiftokers. And no if you do something questionable the shifting police will not find you. You're safe. I promise

10. "You can get stuck in your DR!"

If we can shift to our DR we can shift again. Like what? Who let this toddler type? That doesn't even make sense.

Honey, I can assure you, you're not stuck here. You're not stuck there.

11. "You can't script relationships that's against their free will!"

Have you ever heard of infinite realities where every single thing you can ever think of exists? Yeah? Then STOOOOOP

You are shifting to a reality where those relationships exist! Where that relationship is real and mutual. Where they feel so much love for you as you do them. No forcing.

Now, if you're holding them in your basement, tying them to a chair and begging them to love you forcefully like you're in a yandere wattpad fic from 2013? Yeah, you need to rethink some things. But if not! You're good!

Whatever relationships you script are requited

12. "Your DR isn't as real as this one"

Woooo, imma throw hands. Let's go. Someone hold my hoops for me? I'm gonna beat a bitch up.

YOUR DR IS A REALITY!!!!!!

Meaning it is just as real as this one. Just as real, maybe even more real! The people are real. The places are real. The experiences are real!

13. "People shift based on genetics"

Aw yes... my new favorite reason to murder.

Anyone and their mama can shift. You can shift, I can shift, the person you randomly saw on the street can shift, fuck your pet can shift. Anyone can. Okay? We are all one. Pure awareness. That's what we all are.

None of that. We are not shifting based off anything but what we all are.

✨ That's all for today, folks. Take care, and remember, you've got this. Go shift, baby!

[witchthewriter]

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄: 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬: 𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒆

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

a/n: this includes ... all types not just one. So it's a bit of a 'preference.' (That's what we called it in the olden days ...)

I would love some feedback; if you want me to continue, or if you want me to add a specific monster or you have a certain scenario in mind!

Also this is 18+, not explicitely explicit but ... we acting like grown ups.

art credit: atnomen_comic

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘: You had no idea this could happen. Especially since your world didn't seem all that magical. But somehow there was another world, just beyond your fingertips. And finally you're able to see past the veil and into the true world.

𝑽𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅

・He’s spent centuries alone, convinced that true love is not an immortal experience. Itt's only a mortal invention...

・So he decided if love was no longer available for him, then he would ... have as much sex as possible. Have as many lovers as he possibly could, even have a few fleeting companions.

・But none have ever made his dead heart stir—until he met you.

・The moment he saw you, something shifted. A sensation he hadn't felt ...since he was human. His cold, lifeless existence suddenly felt warm.

・It wasn't just attraction...no. It was recognition. His soul, long thought to be lost to eternity, had awakened at the sight of you.

・His eyes lock onto yours, and for the first time in centuries, he felt hunger—not for blood, but for you.

・He truly knew you two were soulmates when his bite mark did not fully fade.

・The first time he drank from you, you felt a cool, then electric tingle where his fangs met your skin.

・As he started to drink, with his lips pressed against your neck, his hands tightened on your body and you relaxed. It felt right. He felt so right.

・And then it felt as if his very essence started to weave itself into you and yours into him.

・In the vampire culture, soulmates are a rare phenomenon, whispered about in ancient myths. Now that he has you, he will never let you go.

・He has become your shadow, watching over you, making sure no harm comes to you. Even if it means following you. He's only ensuring your safety.

𝑾𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅

・The moment he catches your scent, it was over. Even his wolf knew before his mind could catch up.

・Everything changed. His heartbeat started to race, his instincts screamed “mine”, and his world sharpened into a singular focus: you.

・Your scent soon became home, like the warmth of a crackling fire after a long winter hunt. Even in a crowd, he can track your heartbeat.

・If anyone dares to look at you the wrong way, he bares his teeth, his voice dropping into a possessive growl.

・Werewolves are very touch-oriented, and he is absolutely no exception. Expect to be pulled into his lap, carried effortlessly, and nuzzled constantly.

・His favorite thing? Falling asleep curled around you, his warmth keeping you safe and cocooned in his embrace.

・Although he does love being the little spoon...

・The moment you both knew you were meant for each other was when he first touched you. Skin to skin—you felt a sharp, burning sensation on your wrist.

・It wasn't painful, but it was intense. It felt like your souls had locked into place. Whatever felt missing, was now whole.

・The mark is invisible, but you can feel it pulse whenever he’s near, whenever he’s thinking about you, whenever he’s longing for you.

𝑶𝒓𝒄 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅

・Orcs don’t believe in fate. They believe in strength, will, and battle. Romance isn't a big part of the orc culture.

・So in his mind...this wasn't meant to happen. Not to him.

・He tried to ignore the feeling at first. The swirling, giddy feeling whenever he saw you, or, whenever you're near.

・Soulmates are myths, things whispered in old war songs, but the way his chest tightens whenever you’re near proves otherwise.

・He watches you closely, testing your spirit, your fire, your heart—because if you are truly his mate, he needs to be worthy of you.

・His instincts scream to claim you, but he won’t rush—not until he’s proven to both you and himself that he is strong enough to deserve you.

・It is a little annoying. Confusing even. Because the way he acts around you ... you thought he loved you.

・And then he would stop himself.

・Put up a wall.

・But you understood him once he gave you a certain something.

・Orcs don’t write love letters—they craft. And he had been making things for you constantly:

A knife with a handle carved to fit your grip perfectly.

A wooden pendant engraved with symbols of protection and love.

Your own bow and arrow...the bow had intricate carvings

The pelt of a wolf, to keep you warm. Yes, he had made it himself.

・These gifts are a piece of him. Every time he gifts you something, and you wear/use them, he literally swells with pride.

・You both knew you were soulmates, because your hands burned when you were near each other.

・No, not painful. But the same symbol is left on the top of your hand.

𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏-𝑯𝒚𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒅 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅

・Dragons do not love easily. They are proud, powerful, and above such mortal concerns.

・Until you both received the soulmate mark.

・It happened like this: you had no idea there was an extremely tall being waiting for you to move in the bookstore.

・And then suddenly, you felt a strong yearning for a particular book, and when you went to pick it up, a large hand bumped against your own.

・Instantly, you started to glow. As if you had been dusted with the essence of pure gold.

・His eyes flashed to you, because the same thing was happening to him.

・An ancient feeling bubbling up from the pit of his stomach and he looked at you. Stunned. And you knew he was because his eyes gave it away.

・In that instant he was feeling a force beyond time and reason. His heart—once untamed and indifferent—now started to beat ... for you.

・Dragons are territorial creatures, and now you are his most treasured possession

・He hates being away from you. He knows your schedule, and whenever you wander too far, his wings twitch restlessly, and his claws flex as if he’s about to hunt you down and bring you back.

・If anyone even thinks of touching you, his eyes flash with molten gold, his pupils thinning into slits.

・His hoard grows with things that remind him of you—a necklace you once wore, a book you left open, even things that carry your scent.

・The first time he allowed you to ride on his back in dragon form was a big moment for him. He preened for days, smug and proud that you trust him so deeply.

𝑫𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅

・Demons don’t believe in soulmates. They believe in power, in lust, in domination—not in something as fragile as “destiny.”

・And yet, the moment he lays eyes on you, he feels it—a pull so deep it rattles his very essence.

・His chest tightens with something unfamiliar—not hunger, not desire, but a need beyond reason.

・His claws flex involuntarily. His tail flicks behind him. His smirk falters, just for a second. And then, with a low, sultry chuckle, he leans in and whispers, “Oh… you’re mine.”

・Then a mark, only visible to you and he alone, would glow faintly. A symbol, neither of you know what the symbol exactly is - but it has to mean one thing...

It might appear as black runic symbols, glimmering and glinting on your skin.

However, it may appear as a delicate sigil, an ancient demonic brand woven from flame and magic.

・If you are ever in danger, the mark scorches hot, summoning him instantly—no matter where he is.

・The mark is not always visible to mortal eyes, but it glows faintly when touched by him or in moments of intense emotion.

・He would burn the world down to keep you safe.

・If anyone dares to touch you, flirt with you, or even breathe in your direction too long, his eyes darken, his tail curls possessively around your leg, and his fangs flash in a dangerous grin.

“Oh, I do hope they keep looking...Gives me an excuse to tear them apart.”

・He might act nonchalant, but he watches you like a predator watches its most prized possession.

𝑨𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅

・Angels had a very specific job. From a very specific god... They weren't allowed the same freedoms that the other factions & deities had.

・Therefore, angels do not fall in love lightly. They were created to serve, to protect, to remain above mortal emotions.

・They looked out for humans; as gurdian angels.

・Your guardian angel however, didn't have a problem with getting close to you.

・In fact, he was able to physically be around you, touch you even - which was highly odd because only other beings with magic blood could do that.

・When the soulmate mark appeared, it solidified his feelings and changed your world forever.

・A gentle warmth envelopes you, and an instant calm washes over you.

・The mark is no mark at all, but drops of sunlight mixed with moonlight. They swirl on both your hands, fingers, wrists and arms. Like a moving masterpiece of true love captured through a pearlescent light.

・His very essence had trembled, as if the divine itself had rewritten fate just for the two of you.

・His wings shuddered, breath caught and for the first time in his eternal existence he felt longing.

・Usually angels did not receive soulmates.

・But for some reason he did.

・His loyalty knows no bounds. He would never stand against you. Never leave you. Never hurt you in any way possible.

・And though his essence is peace. He would die for you. He would challenge anyone or anything for you.

・There is no other path for him, but you.

[millionthcephalophore]

Okay. A few things here. This is still bad! Buuuuut I would encourage people to read some full articles and get some context on Torres’ work to see exactly HOW these missteps could be justified and why they may have happened.

Portrait of Ross in LA is by farrrr Torres’ most famous candy portrait but it is not the only one! Plenty of them are frequently displayed in a line like the Smithsonian’s installation, is that less effective? Maybe. But it’s not out of line with his work. Nor is the plaques listing of an “ideal weight” or the exhibition’s listed concerns.

Gonzalez-Torres made a lot of work about AIDS and he made it exceptionally well. However, it was not his only artistic concern. This exhibition focuses on his innovations in portraiture and his lateral thinking about the genre. It would be absolutely disingenuous and sinister for the exhibit not to mention AIDS, but if I’m going to be a little honest I don’t have a problem with an exhibition placing its focus elsewhere. He was a brilliant artist and deserves recognition for all of his ideas, not just those related to his suffering.

The work is displayed and plaqued in a way that’s consistent with his other work and doesn’t go against the works’ certificate (basically it’s artist-stipulated display instructions). So from a curatorial standpoint it IS the same piece.

According to the curators a separate piece of wall text near the piece DOES further contextualize it reading, in part, “Gonzalez-Torres cared for his partner Ross Laycock, named in the candy work’s title, who died from HIV/AIDS in 1991. So there are some mentions of AIDS throughout the exhibit. I still think that this is not enough contextualization, but again, I see how it happened.

The display’s main problem is that its supremely fucking out of touch.

Portrait of Ross in LA means something to people, its more than just a portrait its a symbol, its a memorial, its grown past the artist and become something for an entire community that has frequently been robbed of the ability to openly mourn. I’ve gotten the privilege of seeing it in person a few times and it commands a reverence like nothing else I’ve ever seen. I keep the wrappers from my visit just to remind myself of that experience of twisting brilliant inadequate grief that it evoked in me. I keep the wrappers because it felt morally wrong to throw them away.

You have to treat Portrait of Ross in LA with fucking respect.

The conditions for respect have already been outlined, like several articles point out, we’ve already been here. The Art Institute did basically the same thing a few years ago and it was made clear by public outcry that caring for this piece and its significance means including a proper wall label. Its being respected by museum goers not already familiar with the piece is contingent on that wall label, people are less likely to read the other wall text.

SO. All in all I think that the curatorial decisions made here were pretty standard and I’d need to actually see the exhibit to make a ruling on their potential erasure of AIDS and Gonzalez-Torres’ sexuality within the exhibit as a whole. BUT the display also shows an ignorance of the work’s significance and a disregard for prior discourse/ meaning making surrounding it. It feels a bit like a slap in the face.

Anyways here’s another article with some more comments made by the curators if anyone wants more context:

https://www.artnews.com/art-news/news/felix-gonzalez-torres-national-portrait-gallery-untitled-portrait-of-ross-in-la-controversy-1234731113/

the david zwirner gallery and the felix gonzalez torres foundation in the smithsonian removed the descriptive plaque for portrait of ross in la by felix gonzalez-torres. the old plaque explained portrait for ross' origins as the artist's partner's aids related death, and replaced it with a plaque with absolutely no information about the piece itself, who ross was, or who gonzalez-torres was either. portrait of ross was also reeranged to lay on the floor long ways instead of in a pile as it typically is situated, and the plaque outside the exhibition FOR GONZALEZ-TORRES omits his sexuality, as well as his aids related death. i'm in utter disbelief

[daryltwdixon]

Summary: There is no choice, not really—just the weight of a decision that will haunt him for the rest of his days. Joel moves forward, because he has to, because stopping means losing, because if he looks back, he might see what he’s done.

warnings: psychological warfare and im really sorry. read with caution. Ellie hospital scene. It's a long one!

Joel

Joel gasps in a ragged breath as he breaks the surface, lungs burning, throat raw from swallowing half the damn river. His body is done, legs barely kicking, arms aching from the weight of what he’s dragging with him. The current fights to pull him back under, but he fights harder. He has to.

When he reaches the work ramp, the water slows, lapping lazily at the concrete as he collapses onto solid ground. His knees hit hard, pain ricocheting up his legs, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the two unmoving bodies beside him.

Neither of you are breathing.

His hands tremble as he leans over both of you, chest heaving, mind spinning. Water drips from your clothes, puddling around you, your faces too still. Too pale. His heart is hammering against his ribs, panic flooding through his veins like a sickness.

He needs to move. He needs to do something, he can’t fail, he won’t fail. There's only so much time the brain can handle without oxygen.

But how is he supposed to choose? Who does he reach for first, who does he save first? It’s a paralyzing thought as he looks between you. 

Ellie . She’s immune, she’s the only hope left for the world. What started as a promise to Tess, the reason Henry and Sam died, the reason he’s still moving after losing everything. If she dies here, if this is where it all ends, the Fireflies won’t have a cure. Humanity won’t have a chance.

But then there’s you.

And if he loses you, if he watches you slip away under his hands, he doesn’t know if there will be anything left of him to keep going. 

The thought digs into his ribs, carves something hollow and aching in his chest, a terror deeper than anything he’s felt in twenty years. You aren’t just another person he’s had to protect, another responsibility thrown on his back. You’re something else entirely—something he wasn’t supposed to have, wasn’t supposed to let himself care about, but he does, God, he does. 

His breath catches, his hands hovering, twitching, desperate to do something.

He has to pick. He has to pick.

And he doesn’t know if he can live with his choice.

There isn’t a clear path here, no choice between right and wrong anymore. His chest tightens as the seconds bleed away, each one too precious to waste. Then, finally, he moves, pressing his hands down, forcing his hands into the chest cavity. It’s robotic at this point, panic melting into auto pilot, too sick to his stomach to think about what he’s doing.

“Hands in the air!”

The voice barely registers.

“She’s not breathin’,” Joel mutters, barely aware he’s speaking. His hands don’t stop, pressing harder, trying to force the chest beneath his palms to rise again.

“Hands in the fucking air!”

Boots slam against pavement. Rifles shift. He doesn’t stop.

“Come on,” he pleads, voice raw, broken, desperate. “Please, please—”

The footsteps close in. He refuses to look up. Someone moves fast, a shadow rising over him.

The weapon swings.

There’s a bright light above him the next time his eyes crack open, stark and unforgiving. For a moment, he wonders if this is it—the moment they all talk about, the light at the end, the peace after all the hell. Maybe this is where it ends.

Then his mind catches up.

It slams into him all at once—your lifeless body, Ellie’s motionless form on the cement, the desperate press of his hands, the gasping prayers caught in his throat. His breath hitches, his body jerking like he’s still trapped in the current, still fighting to pull you both to safety.

His eyes snap open fully. His pulse pounds against his ribs as he scans the room, unfamiliar walls closing in around him. The air smells too clean. The sheets beneath him are stiff and thin, the bed hard and unforgiving. There’s a deep, pounding ache in the back of his skull, his limbs heavy in a way that makes his gut twist. Something isn’t right.

He looks to his right, and sees someone that, for all he knew, was dead.

“Welcome to the Fireflies,” Marlene says, sitting beside him in a chair, legs crossed, her expression unreadable. 

She gives him a moment before saying, “Sorry about the…” he points to her head, reminding him of the source of the thrum in his skull, “They didn’t know who you were.”

Joel barely hears her. His throat is dry when he finally asks, “Ellie?”

“She’s alright. They brought her back.”

His stomach knots. He inhales, but the breath feels shallow. “And…?”

Marlene’s expression flickers—regret, maybe, but it’s distant, weighed down by something else.

“They were only told to bring in you and Ellie,” she says. “By the time I heard there was another girl… they told me she wasn’t moving, Joel. I’m sorry.”

His body stiffens, his back pressing against the hard mattress as he takes it in. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. The words are there, clear as day, but his brain refuses to take them in fully.

You were already gone when they got there.

His hands curl into fists, nails digging into his palms, but the pain doesn’t pull him out of it. His mind lingers in the space where you might have had more time, where if someone—anyone—had just tried a little harder, you might be here. If he had just worked faster. If he had made the right call.

But Ellie is alive. Ellie made it.

Marlene’s voice cuts through the fog, like she’s trying to process it all herself. “You came all this way… How’d you do it?”

“It was Ellie,” he mutters, his voice hollow. “And…her. They fought like hell to get here.”

“Maybe it was meant to be…” He whispers it more to himself than her, like if he says it enough times, he’ll believe it.

Joel pushes himself up, ignoring the way his body protests, but then he realizes—there’s a guard by the door.

Marlene exhales, shaking her head. “You were the one person I never wanted to be in debt to.” She doesn’t look at him when she says it, just stares ahead, like she’s still working through the reality of it all. “I pretty much lost everything. Most of my crew died getting me here. And then you show up, and somehow we find you just in time to save her.”

Not in time enough. Not for both of you.

Joel squeezes his eyes shut.

Marlene glances at him, voice softer. “Maybe it was meant to be.”

The words don’t feel right coming from her. They don’t feel right at all.

Joel swings his legs off the side of the bed. “Take me to her.”

“You don’t have to worry about Ellie anymore,” Marlene says. “We’ll take care of her—”

“I worry,” Joel snaps. “Just let me see her. Please.”

Marlene’s arms cross over her chest. Her eyes flicker to the guard. “We can’t. She’s being prepped for surgery.”

Something sharp lodges itself in Joel’s gut, cutting straight through whatever daze had been dulling his senses. The exhaustion, the grief, the weight of loss—all of it clears in an instant.

His voice is tight. “The hell you mean, surgery?”

“The doctors tell me that the Cordyceps, the growth inside her, has somehow mutated. It’s why she’s immune.”

Joel feels the guard shift behind him, closing in, but he barely registers it.

Marlene doesn’t flinch. “Once they remove it, they’ll be able to reverse engineer a vaccine.” She exhales, like she’s still convincing herself of the importance of it all. “A vaccine, Joel.”

His mind stumbles over the words, trying to put the pieces together. “But it grows all over the brain.”

Marlene just looks at him.

“It does.”

A thick silence settles between them.

His chest rises and falls, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together with sickening clarity.

“Find someone else,” Joel demands, voice cold.

“There is no one else.”

“Listen,” he growls, teeth clenched, hands curling into fists. “You’re gonna show me where—”

The guard moves before he can finish, slamming him down, pinning his arms behind his back as his chest hits the floor.

Joel grunts, pain sparking across his ribs.

“Stop,” Marlene says, and as Joel groans, pressing against the cold tile, she continues, “I get it. But whatever it is you think you’re going through right now is nothing compared to what I have been through.”

His jaw clenches so tight he feels his teeth creak.

Oh , fuck her .

Didn’t she get it? He was losing both of you. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

“I knew her since she was born,” Marlene’s voice cracks, just slightly, but she keeps going. “I promised her mother I would look after her. No one understands more than me.”

Joel barely hears her over the blood pounding in his ears.

“Then why are you letting this happen?” His voice is hoarse, nearly pleading.

“Because this isn’t about me,” she says, jabbing a finger into her own chest, anger flashing across her face. “Or even her. There is no other choice here.”

Joel exhales slowly, shoulders rising and falling as he pushes himself up just enough to sit back on his heels. His voice is dark, low, edged with something dangerous.

“Yeah,” he growls. “You keep tellin’ yourself that bullshit.”

Marlene straightens, glancing at the guard without a second thought. “March him out of here. He tries anything, shoot him.”

Joel doesn’t move, doesn’t fight, just glares at her from the floor.

She watches him for a moment, something almost unreadable flickering in her expression before she turns to leave. Just before stepping through the door, her voice lowers.

“Don’t waste this gift, Joel.”

Then she’s gone.

Joel stands there, Marlene’s words ringing in his head. Don’t waste this gift, Joel. Like this was some grand gesture, like they were offering him something instead of taking everything from him. Like he had a choice.

But what other fucking choice was there?

Going back to Jackson alone? Failing the both of you? Failing everything he had fought for, everything he had clawed his way through hell to protect? He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t.

The guard orders him up. Then a second time, the barrel of a gun pointing down at him.

Joel obeys, moving slowly, forcing his mind to focus through the pounding in his skull. He needs time. He needs his weapons.

The gun shoves harder into his back now, an irritated breath hissing through the Firefly’s teeth. "Give me an excuse."

Joel tilts his head slightly. "Which way?" His voice is quiet, measured, just enough distraction.

The man jerks his gun to the left. Joel follows.

The hospital is dim, the only light flickering weakly over the center desk. It looks abandoned, half-dead already. But something catches his eye as he passes—a bag. His bag. His weapons.

His fingers twitch. He watches them until the wall cuts off his view, then slows his pace, working it through in his head.

The Firefly bristles behind him. "What the fuck are you doin’? Keep walkin’."

Joel doesn’t answer. He waits.

The second the guard’s gun nudges his back again, he moves.

It’s fast—an elbow thrown back, a sharp crack as it connects. The gunshot rings out, echoing through the halls, but it slams harmlessly into the wall. Joel is already turning, wrenching the gun from the Firefly’s hands, twisting his arm, shoving him back. The man grunts, dazed, and Joel slams the barrel against his face. Once. Twice. The Firefly’s head snaps back, blood splattering the wall.

Joel shoves his forearm into his neck, pinning him, pressing the gun to the man’s groin.

"Where’s the operating room?" His voice is low, controlled, cold.

The man grits his teeth and stays silent. Joel exhales through his nose, then pulls the trigger. The Firefly howls , sagging against him, body crumpling.

" Where ?" Joel growls again.

Still nothing.

Joel squeezes the trigger again.

"WHERE?"

The man’s head lolls, breath ragged, face twisted in agony. His knees buckle, Joel’s arm the only thing keeping him upright.

"Top floor," he chokes out. "Far end."

Joel lets him drop. A moment later, he doesn’t hesitate, firing a final shot into the man’s skull.

He grabs his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder, hands locking around his rifle just as the sound of footsteps barrels down the hallway. More Fireflies. More obstacles.

Joel doesn’t think. He just moves .

He pushes forward, steps calculated, rifle raised. The first Firefly barely sees him before he drops. Then another. And another.

One by one, he clears them.

His mind is razor-sharp, focused, his grip steady, his body moving on instinct. But your face keeps creeping at the edges, pulling at his resolve, yanking him back to the cement, to the cold water pooling beneath you, to the way your hair had fanned out, damp and lifeless, as he made his choice.

He shakes it off. He has to. He can’t lose both of you. He has to get to Ellie.

More bodies fall, but he doesn’t care. He isn’t leaving until he finds her. If he couldn’t save you, he would save her. He couldn’t leave alone.

His boots pound against the linoleum, moving faster, fueled by something deeper than adrenaline, something darker. The halls flicker in and out of shadow as the emergency lights struggle to stay alive. He follows the signs—pediatrics—how fucking ironic that they’d still use the same rooms meant for saving children, even now, in this ruined world.

It’s quieter here. The distant echo of gunfire fades, replaced by the steady, rhythmic beeping of machines. He moves down the hall, toward the bright glow spilling out from the small glass window of a red door. His stomach twists as he swallows thickly. The scrub-in room is sterile, lined with sinks, the scent of disinfectant cutting through the blood drying on his skin.

Ellie is on the operating table, too still, too pale, wires and tubes snaking around her small frame. His chest tightens. She looks lifeless. Just like—

No. Not now. He shuts it down.

There are voices. A murmur of surprise and confusion as he steps inside. The second the door swings open, the surgeon’s head snaps up.

“What are you doing?!” the man exclaims, instinctively moving back. His hands fumble for something, grabbing a scalpel—a scalpel , like that could stop Joel now.

He pushes through.

“I won’t let you take her!” the doctor shouts, voice cracking with desperation. “This is our future! Think of all the lives we’ll save!”

But those lives won’t be Ellie’s. They won’t be your life.

Joel moves forward, slow, measured. The surgeon bristles, stepping back until there’s nowhere left to go.

“Don’t come any closer! I mean it!”

Joel barely hears him. There’s only red. The bright light of the room turns crimson in his vision, flooding everything. His body moves before his mind even registers it.

The scalpel is in his hands. Then it’s in the man’s neck.

A sickening gurgle fills the air as the doctor stumbles, hands flying up to the wound as blood pulses between his fingers. He slumps to the floor, his body twitching before going still.

“No!” a nurse screams, voice sharp with horror. “You fucking animal!”

Another one hisses at her to shut up. Joel doesn’t care.

He’s already at Ellie’s side, unhooking her, pulling tubes from her skin, tossing aside the oxygen mask suffocating her small face. His hands are shaking, but he works quickly, murmuring low as he cradles her limp body in his arms.

"Come on, baby girl. I got you, I got you."

Then the alarms begin to blare.

A loud, shrieking wail rips through the hospital, the red emergency lights flashing in jagged bursts. Shadows move beyond the glass doors—flashlights cutting through the darkness, the rapid stomp of boots, Fireflies closing in.

He needed to move. Now.

With Ellie secured against his chest, Joel turns and runs.

You

It’s warm.

Not just warm—golden, like the kind of sunlight that filters through leaves in late summer, shifting and flickering in the breeze. The air is soft, thick with something comforting, familiar, wrapping around you like a heavy blanket. You hear the faint rustling of trees, the slow hum of cicadas in the distance. Somewhere close, a creek bubbles, the gentle rush of water against stone.

You’re lying in the grass, the blades tickling your skin, the warmth of the sun pressing against your cheeks. You should get up. You know that. But your limbs feel heavy, too relaxed, too comfortable.

Then, fingers brush against your temple.

A slow, careful touch, tucking the loose strands of hair behind your ear. It’s gentle, warm. Safe.

“Hey,” Joel murmurs, voice low and steady. “Come on now, sweetheart.”

You hum, eyes fluttering, but they don’t open. Not yet. Just a little longer. Let me sleep.

His thumb trails lightly across your cheek. “Need you to wake up, baby.”

Something in his voice makes your chest ache. There’s something wrong there, something pleading beneath the softness.

You want to stay here. You want to keep breathing in the warm air, feeling the sun, listening to the steady rhythm of his voice.

But then his hand is slipping away.

No.

You reach for him, but the warmth starts to pull back, the golden light fading . The sound of the creek dulls, the hum of cicadas fading into something else—something colder.

“Joel,” you murmur, voice thick, slow, like you’re trying to hold onto something slipping through your fingers.

“Wake up,” he says again, but his voice is changing, shifting, deeper now, rougher.

Then everything disappears.

Suddenly it’s freezing.

Your body seizes as cold slams into you, sharp and biting, cutting through the softness in an instant. Your chest tightens, lungs spasming, and then—

You’re coughing, choking, water spilling from your mouth as your body jerks violently, muscles convulsing as you fight for air. Your fingers scrape against rough cement, nails dragging as you push yourself onto your side, gasping, spluttering, your throat raw, your ribs aching.

You blink, forcing your eyes open, the dim light of the tunnel swimming in and out of focus. Your limbs feel leaden, frozen through, but you push up onto shaky elbows, sucking in a breath that burns all the way down.

Your heart is pounding.

The warmth is gone and so is Joel. Where was he? Where was Ellie?

Your stomach knots, panic rising through the exhaustion. You scramble up, your body swaying, head spinning as you look around, searching for them.

But the tunnel is silent, just the sound of water lapping against the cement of the tunnel. You grab your backpack, thankfully still here with your bow and arrows, and begin to move.

Then you see it, a glint of metal in the grass. Your breath catches as you stagger forward, fingers wrapping around it before you even register what it is. Ellie’s pistol. Your grip tightens around the handle, stomach twisting. She wouldn’t have left this, not on purpose.

Your breath comes quicker now, uneven, your pulse thrumming against your skin as you turn, eyes lifting toward the skyline.

The hospital stands in the distance, stark and still against the gray sky, its windows shattered, its walls stained. They had to be there, didn’t they?

The wind is sharp as you move forward, pushing through the lingering dampness clinging to your skin. Each step is heavy, sluggish, but you force yourself to keep moving, the weight of exhaustion trying to drag you down. The hospital looms in the distance, cold and silent. 

You keep your grip firm on Ellie’s pistol, fingers tightening and loosening as you scan the building for movement. Nothing. No signs of people except the lights glowing in the upper windows. No signs of Joel or Ellie. But they had to be here. They had to be.

The place is too quiet, too still, but that only sets your nerves on edge. Then you hear the voices.

You freeze, pressing yourself behind an abandoned car near the entrance, listening.

“…can’t reach anyone upstairs.” A man’s voice, low and tense. “All units should be responding, but I don’t know what the hell’s going on up there.”

“There were gunshots. You think it’s them?”

“I don’t know, but keep your eyes open. If they’re here, we put them down.”

Your pulse spikes. Joel.

He’s still inside. He’s fighting. Why is he fighting? What went wrong?

You duck lower, peering through the broken-out window of the car. Two Firefly soldiers stand near the side entrance, rifles ready, scanning the area. They’re blocking the way you were planning to go, and you know you aren’t strong enough to take them both in hand-to-hand combat. You barely have the strength to hold yourself up, let alone fight someone trained.

But distance. Distance you can work with.

You ease Ellie’s pistol into your waistband, keeping your breath steady. If you miss, you’re dead. If you alert the other Fireflies, you’re dead. There’s no second chance.

Carefully, you pull your bow from your shoulders, fingers brushing over the few remaining arrows. Not much left. You grab one, nock it, draw back.

The first man drops before his partner even registers what’s happened. A clean shot, straight through the throat. His body crumples soundlessly to the ground.

The second turns, eyes going wide, mouth opening to shout—

You loose the next arrow before he gets the chance, and the thud of his body barely makes a sound.

You don’t wait to see if anyone heard. You run. More voices crackle over their walkies, static-filled and frantic.

“ —we need backup now! He’s got the girl—”

Gunfire erupts from inside the building, but you keep moving, ducking low, keeping to the perimeter as you round the building. You’re almost to the parking garage when something grabs you from behind.

A thick arm wraps around your throat, yanking you backward, your vision tilting as you struggle. Your lungs seize, hands clawing at the arm crushing against your windpipe. He’s strong, too strong , and panic explodes in your chest as you thrash, kicking wildly.

Then you remember your knife.

Your fingers scramble for the handle strapped to your hip, yanking it free and plunging it backward, twisting the blade deep into his thigh.

The man startles, his grip loosening just enough for you to tear free, stumbling backward as you gasp in air. He’s still moving, staggering, reaching for you, so you don’t hesitate. You grip the knife tighter and slam it into his throat.

He gurgles, then slumps to the pavement.

You shake out your trembling hands, yanking the blade free, wiping the blood on your jeans. Your breaths come sharp and ragged, but you don’t stop to dwell on it. You won’t let the haze that had covered you for weeks in guilt come over you now.

The parking garage entrance is open, a long ramp sloping downward into the dark. You slip inside, sticking to the walls, careful to avoid making noise. The air is heavy, thick with the scent of oil and damp concrete, the overhead lights flickering dimly.

Somewhere above you, voices echo.

You follow them.

The stairwell is narrow, the metal steps cold beneath your fingers as you climb, moving slowly, cautiously. The closer you get, the clearer the voices become.

Then you hear him. The voice you would follow anywhere, even if it was into the dark.

Your stomach knots as you reach the top landing, peering through the crack in the door. He’s there, moving steadily, his arms wrapped around Ellie’s limp form as she wears a thin, blue covering, holding her close to his chest. Her head rests against him, her body slack, and something deep inside you twists so hard it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

Then you see the gun in the woman’s hand. It’s trained on him, steady and unwavering.

She stands just a few feet away, her stance firm, both hands gripping the pistol as she keeps her aim locked on Joel.

Your breath catches, the weight of the moment settling over you like a vice, pressing down on your ribs, squeezing your lungs. You swallow hard, moving to switch your bow for Ellie’s pistol, gripping it tightly in your hands as you desperately try to work out your next move.

“It ain’t for you to decide,” Joel growls.

“It’s what she’d want,” the woman says, circling him. You push deeper into the shadows, but she doesn’t see you, her gaze is locked on him, “You can still do the right thing here.” the woman says, holding her hands up, the gun beginning to point away from him.

And then you step out of the shadows, and pull the trigger. The shot rings out, splitting the air like a crack of thunder.

The woman stumbles, a sharp, gasping breath hitching in her throat as the bullet tears through her shoulder. She lurches forward, her pistol clattering to the ground as her hands fly to the wound, crimson blooming against her shirt.

Joel jumps back, and you can see the panic flare. He’s ready to fight anyone who comes in his way. He shifts away from Marlene, gripping Ellie tighter to himself, and grabbing his own gun and pointing it out from under her knees.

He twists around to face the threat, and his gaze lifts and meets yours.

For a long, few heartbeats, he doesn’t move. He just stares at you like he’s seeing a ghost, like he’s trying to convince himself you’re standing there, real and breathing. His chest rises and falls in ragged, uneven breaths, his arms locked around Ellie, his body trembling with something too big for words.

Your name slips from his lips, barely a whisper, his voice hoarse, breaking on the syllables like it physically hurts him to say it. His knees threaten to buckle, like his body is giving up on him, but he forces himself to stay upright, forces himself to hold onto Ellie because he has to.

Your eyes narrow on him, had he thought–

“What the hell is going on?” you whisper, stepping toward him, heart hammering.

Your eyes drop to Ellie, her small, limp frame cradled against him, her face pale beneath the flickering parking lot lights. Panic claws its way up your throat as you reach for her, your hands hovering over her body, searching for signs of injury.

“She—she’s okay,” Joel breathes, like he can barely believe it himself.

“She’s not supposed to be.”

The voice comes from behind you, sharp and raw with pain.

You turn to see the woman on the floor, her hand clutching her bleeding shoulder, her face twisted in something between agony and fury.

“He’s killing everyone,” she rasps, glaring up at you.

Your stomach tightens. You look at her, then at Joel. He shakes his head immediately, a storm building behind his eyes, anger and pain clashing so violently across his face that it scares you.

“He’s stealing her because he’s a selfish animal,” the woman spits, voice cracked and ragged. “He’d rather save her than the entire world.”

Joel only looks at you.

“Baby,” he whispers, his voice desperate, pleading, willing you to listen to him . You swear you can almost see tears in his eyes now, “Please. They were going to kill her. You have to understand.”

Your breath catches. Your throat feels tight, dry, like the walls are closing in around you. “Kill her?”

He nods, but the woman speaks before he can.

“It’s what she would’ve wanted, Joel, and you know it,” she says, her voice raw. “She would’ve wanted to save everyone, even if it meant sacrificing herself for it.”

Your head spins, everything shifting at once.

Ellie…Ellie would’ve had to die to create a cure?

You look down at her again, at her peaceful, unconscious face, your hands tightening into fists at your sides.

Disbelief and desperation crash into you like a tidal wave. You’re not entirely sure who the whirlwind of feelings is pointed towards at the moment. Joel was taking her. Taking her from her life’s purpose, from what she was meant to do, what she had fought so hard to become. They were going to make a cure. They were going to save everyone.

But to do that, they had to kill her.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you look back at him. His grip on Ellie is ironclad, his knuckles white where they clutch at her shirt. His jaw is clenched, his entire body coiled so tightly you think he might snap apart.

And suddenly, you see it.

The way his breath shudders, the way his fingers tremble against Ellie’s skin, the way his eyes shine with something close to madness—he couldn’t lose her.

Not again. Not after Sarah. This wasn’t just about Ellie. It wasn’t just about a cure or a choice. This was about a father who had already buried one daughter and refused to bury another.

Your stomach twists. Your chest tightens. You don’t know what to feel.

But you know what to do.

“Get her in the car,” you say, pointing to the truck behind him.

Joel doesn’t hesitate.

He moves, carrying Ellie toward the vehicle, his arms still locked around her. You don’t look at him. You don’t let yourself think.

“No!” the woman cries from the ground, her bloody hand reaching toward you, desperate, grasping at anything . “Please, don’t—”

But Joel doesn’t let her finish. He sets Ellie down and turns, moving so fast you barely register it, “You’re just gonna come after her.” he says with eerie quietness.

Then the gunshot shatters the silence, and the woman’s body jerks, then slumps, her outstretched hand falling limp against the blood-slick floor.

Joel exhales, shoulders heaving, his grip tightening around the gun as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His chest rises and falls in sharp, ragged bursts, his head tilting back as he drags in a breath like he’s trying to steady himself. But there’s nothing steady about him right now.

He turns to you.

His eyes are wild, his face drawn tight with something raw, something too big, too heavy to carry alone. The way he looks at you sends something sharp through your chest, something painful, something close to grief.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, his voice breaking, barely more than a whisper as he reaches for you.

And then his arms are around you.

It’s not gentle—it’s desperate, crushing, pulling you so tight against him that for a second, the air is knocked from your lungs. His fingers dig into your back, gripping you like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real, that this isn’t just another cruel trick of the world taking from him again. His breath shudders against your hair, his whole body trembling with something he can’t name, something he doesn’t even try to hold back.

“I thought—” His voice catches, cracking in a way you’ve never heard before. “I thought you were gone.”

Your chest clenches. You don’t know what to say, don’t even know what you can say. So you don’t. Instead, your arms wrap around him, pressing your face into his chest. He’s warm, so warm, his heart pounding hard beneath your cheek, his entire body still coiled tight like he can’t fully let go. Your fingers fist into the back of his jacket, holding him just as much as he’s holding you.

Neither of you move.

Then you hear more voices. They cut through the moment, distant at first, but quickly getting closer. Heavy boots against pavement. Shouting. Orders being given.

Joel stiffens, his arms tightening around you for just a second longer before he pulls back, his hands lingering on your arms like he doesn’t want to let go. His eyes dart past you, his expression shifting instantly, something hard and determined settling over his face.

“We gotta go,” he says, voice low, urgent.

You nod, stepping back, wiping a shaky hand to your tear streaked face as you turn toward the truck. Joel is already moving, carefully setting Ellie’s legs up in the backseat, his jaw tight as he checks her over one last time. The sound of approaching voices is growing louder, closing in fast.

Your fingers fumble as you grip the passenger door handle, heart hammering as you climb inside. Joel slams the driver’s side shut just as he twists the key in the ignition, the truck sputtering to life. Thank god it runs.

Joel is throwing it into gear suddenly, the tires screeching against the pavement as you speed out of the garage. The hospital vanishes behind you, swallowed by the night.

Joel’s hands grip the wheel, knuckles tight, his eyes locked on the dark stretch of road ahead. The truck hums beneath you, the only sound cutting through the thick silence that’s settled between you.

You sit stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, still chilled to the bone, but you can’t tell if it’s from the cold or from everything that just happened. Your fingers twitch against your thigh, your mind racing in circles, trying to grasp the full weight of what you just walked into.

Joel exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face, the muscles in his jaw twitching. His body is wound tight, like he’s still ready for a fight, like he hasn’t let himself breathe since the moment he ran out of that hospital with Ellie in his arms.

You glance at her now, curled in the backseat, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths, unaware of what’s just happened. Of what Joel has done to keep her here.

The road stretches ahead, endless and empty.

Whatever it is, whatever he’d done… it would change everything, but it wouldn’t change this.

You shift slightly, leaning toward him. For a moment, he doesn’t react, his mind still miles away, lost in thoughts you can’t begin to unravel. But then, after a beat, he exhales, his grip on the wheel loosening just enough. His arm lifts, hesitates, then opens to you.

That’s all you need.

You move into him, pressing against his side, wrapping your arm around his middle. He’s warm, solid, the heat of his body seeping into your frozen skin, grounding you like it always does.

Joel sighs, the sound low, tired. His hand comes down to rest on your back, wide and steady, fingers pressing into the fabric of your shirt like he needs the reassurance that you’re really there.

“Joel?” Your voice is small, uncertain.

“Hm?” he grunts. Then, like he only just realizes you’re talking to him, he pulls in a breath, his palm splaying flat against your back, holding you closer.

“Yeah, baby?”

You hesitate, feeling the weight of what you’re about to ask settle thick between you. The warmth of his body, the way he’s holding you, it almost makes you want to let it go. To pretend, for just a little while longer, that you don’t want to know the answer.

But you need to hear him say it.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

His body stiffens against you. His eyes flicker down, just for a second, before returning to the road ahead. His grip tightens just slightly against your back, and you can feel the shift in him, the way he withdraws just a little—not from you, but from the moment.

You don’t let him retreat.

“I want the truth,” you say, firmer this time. “I can handle it.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw working, but he doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches between you, tense, filled with all the things he isn’t saying.

Then, slowly, he leans his head down onto yours. His breath is steady, but the weight of him resting against you feels different than before—like an apology, like a confession without words.

“I know you can,” he murmurs, voice rough, low.

You wait, holding onto the warmth of him, listening to the hum of the tires against the road, waiting for him to speak again.

When he finally does, it’s quiet.

“I saved her,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. 

But somehow you know that’s only the half of it. 

You watch him for a long moment before you say: "From the beginning," 

The road stretches endlessly ahead, bathed in the soft light of morning. Hours have passed in near silence, the weight of everything settled heavy in the truck. Your hands grip the wheel now, your body aching from exhaustion, but the need to keep moving outweighs it.

Joel sits beside you, his posture slack but tense in ways only you would notice. His head rests in his hand, elbow braced against the door, his eyes a thousand miles away like he’s trying to keep his thoughts from spilling over. You glance at him, and he exhales deeply, the sound barely audible over the hum of the truck.

Then, a rustling from the backseat.

Your breath stills. Your fingers flex around the steering wheel.

Joel hears it too. His head lifts immediately, eyes flickering over his shoulder before shifting back toward Ellie, something raw and bracing settling in his expression.

Behind you, Ellie stirs. She groans, shifting sluggishly against the seat.

“The hell am I wearing?” she mutters, her voice groggy.

Joel turns in his seat, his voice softer than you’ve heard in days. “Just take it easy,” he says. “The drugs are still wearing off.”

Ellie blinks sluggishly, disoriented, her limbs heavy from whatever they pumped into her system. You can see it in her face, the confusion settling in, the questions forming.

“What happened?” she whispers.

The air in the truck shifts. You knew it was coming, knew the second she woke up she’d ask. But hearing it out loud so soon sends a sharp twist through your chest. Your gaze flickers to Joel. He’s looking down at his seat, his fingers twitching before he forces himself to sit forward again, watching the road like it might give him the right words.

Then, he speaks.

“We found the Fireflies,” he says, voice steady, measured. “Turns out there’s a whole lot more like you, Ellie.”

The words settle like a stone in your gut.

“People that are immune—dozens of them,” he continues, pausing briefly. “Ain’t done a damn bit of good… They just—”

He hesitates. Just for a second.

Then he turns back to her, eyes softening, but his voice firm.

“They stopped lookin’ for a cure.”

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, inhaling through your nose before focusing back on the road. You can’t bear to look at her, can’t bear to see the way she processes it.

She turns slowly, facing the rear of the car, her back now to both of you.

You swallow thickly, shifting in your seat, the weight of it pressing harder into your ribs.

“We’re headed home now,” you say, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Joel looks back at her, something unreadable in his expression. A long silence stretches between you all, the hum of the tires on the road the only thing filling the space.

Then, his voice—low, almost inaudible.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

But Ellie doesn’t turn back.

The car hood slams down with a sharp metallic clang, echoing through the empty stretch of road. You scoff, wiping your hands against your jeans, smearing grease and dirt into the fabric. The truck had held out for as long as it could, but after hours of hard driving, it had finally given up on you.

“Looks like we’re walkin’ the rest of the way,” you say, shaking your head.

Joel comes around the front, glancing at the road sign half-covered in ivy. Jackson City, next right. The paint is weather-worn, but the words are still clear enough.

“Should be a straight shot through, anyway,” he says.

You nod, adjusting your pack as he takes the lead, stepping off the abandoned road and into the thick woods beyond.

The transition is instant; gone is the cracked pavement, replaced with the uneven, damp earth of the forest floor. The trees are massive, their trunks stretching high into the afternoon light, patches of blue sky barely visible through the tangled branches. A mix of pine and bare oaks crowd the space, the ground littered with dead leaves, rotting wood, and scattered patches of bright green moss. The air is cool, crisp with the lingering bite of winter, but there’s a freshness to it, the first hints of spring creeping back into the world.

As you walk, the sounds of civilization disappear entirely. There’s no hum of an engine, no wind rattling through empty cars. Instead, it’s just the woods, the crunch of boots against damp leaves, the distant rush of a river cutting through the valley below, the occasional rustle of a bird taking flight from the canopy above.

The trek is slow, the terrain uneven, but Joel moves with ease, pushing past overgrown ferns and low-hanging branches like he’s done this a thousand times before. You follow close behind, stepping over fallen logs, climbing small rocky slopes, your boots sinking into the soft patches of dirt still thawing from the last snow.

After a while, you find yourself walking alongside Ellie.

She’s been quiet for most of the trip, but when she finally speaks, her voice is so soft, so uncertain, that you almost don’t catch it.

“Were you there?”

At first, you don’t react, thinking she might not be speaking to you at all. But when you glance at her, she’s already looking at you, waiting.

There’s something in her expression—not just curiosity, but something deeper. A challenge. A plea. Like she’s giving you the chance to be honest before she even knows if she can trust the answer.

Your breath tightens in your chest.

You shake your head. “When we went underwater in those tunnels, I think I almost drowned. I don’t really remember much.” You keep your voice light, simply recalling everything that she knew, like the weight of this conversation isn’t pressing into your ribs. Stepping carefully over a patch of exposed roots, you sigh. “Then I woke up and the two of you were gone.”

Ellie listens. Hard.

Her boots scuff against a patch of damp moss, but she keeps her gaze ahead, her fingers curling into the sleeves of her jacket. You can feel her hanging onto every word, studying the way you say it, the space between the things you do and don’t tell her.

Your hands ball into fists at your sides as you glance up at Joel ahead, weighing the right words.

“I found you when Joel was already getting you into the car,” you say carefully. That much is true. And right now, the truth—or at least, parts of it—is all you can allow yourself to give her.

Ellie nods slightly, absorbing it. Then, after a pause—

“Did he tell you what happened?”

You hesitate for just a second before nodding. “Yeah, yeah. I met…” you pause, not even knowing the woman’s name that you shot, “I met a someone there. She was with him.”

Ellie’s face shifts with recognition, “Marlene?” she asks. “She knew my mom too.”

You glance at her, watching how carefully she’s watching you.

“Must’ve been her then, yeah,” you say, choosing each word with painstaking precision. “Joel said she was—is—the leader of the Fireflies.” The correction slips out, accidental and you hope she doesn’t catch it.

Ellie doesn’t press you further.

Instead, she just nods, pulling her jacket tighter around herself as she steps over a fallen branch. Quiet again.

The two of you keep moving, the only sound between you the rustling of wind through the leaves, the distant trickle of a stream winding somewhere nearby. The trees seem to stretch on forever, the mountains looming in the distance, their peaks still dusted in winter’s last snow.

Joel remains ahead, moving with a silent focus. And Ellie stays beside you, thoughtful, distant.

You don’t know if she believes you.

You come up upon a crest in the hills, where the trees thin out, and the view opens wide. Below, the valley stretches out beneath you, Jackson nestled safely between the mountains. Smoke curls from chimneys, dotting the landscape with the unmistakable signs of life.

Joel exhales beside you, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little as he takes in the sight. His voice is softer when he speaks.

“You know, I used to take hikes like these with Sarah all the time,” he says, his eyes still on the town below. “I think you both would’ve liked her.” There’s a pause, a faint, almost wistful breath before he adds, “She would’ve liked you.”

Your eyes find his, and you can’t help the small, warm smile that tugs at your lips. He’s letting you in. Talking about Sarah like this, openly, with both of you, it means something. A comfort settles deep in your chest, softening the sharp edges of the last day and a half.

“Yeah,” Ellie says, her voice quieter. “I bet we would’ve.”

Joel nods, his gaze lingering on the valley a moment longer before he moves forward, leading the way toward the dam. You follow, stepping carefully over the uneven terrain, the cold, damp earth soft beneath your boots. Small streams snake through the land, feeding into the massive dam that marks the entrance to Jackson.

It’s close now. You’re so close.

But then—

“Hey, wait,” Ellie calls softly.

You and Joel stop immediately, turning to her.

She stands there, hands fidgeting together, her shoulders drawn tight, her face etched with something so raw it makes your stomach drop.

She sighs, almost more of a groan, rubbing her hands over her face before finally speaking.

“Back in Boston...back when I was bitten. I wasn’t alone.”

Your brows furrow as you listen, feeling something shift in the air, something heavy.

Ellie keeps going, her voice steady but distant, like she’s pulling the words from somewhere deep inside herself. “My best friend was there. And she got bit too. We didn’t know what to do so… she says, ‘Let’s wait it out, y’know? We can be all poetic and lose our minds together.’”

She pauses, swallowing hard, her fingers curling back into fists.

“I’m still waiting my turn.”

Joel takes a step closer, his expression tense. “Ellie—”

But she isn’t done.

“Her name was Riley, and she was the first to die.” Her voice hardens, gains strength, even as pain flickers behind her eyes. “And then it was Tess. And then Sam.”

The words drive a splinter deep into your gut.

Tess.

Your breath catches. Your mind reels, searching through old conversations, through Joel’s words back at Bill’s, in the kitchen, arms crossed, walls up. He hadn’t told you the truth. He never told you she died. But what had he said? Your brain tries to search for it, for what he told you that had happened, but for all you know it was a made up story.

You glance at him now, looking for something, for anything, in his expression. But he doesn’t look at you. His eyes stay on Ellie, his jaw clenched tight.

Ellie lets out a slow breath, eyes burning.

“None of that is on you,” Joel says firmly.

Ellie shakes her head, frustrated. “No, you don’t understand.”

Joel folds his arms over his chest, his voice gentler now, but still steady. “I struggled for a long time with survivin’,” he tells her, his expression softening. “And you. No matter what, you keep findin’ somethin’ to fight for.”

His arms unfold, his fingers brushing over the broken watch strapped to his wrist. Ellie shifts slightly, already turning away, but he isn’t done.

“I know that’s not what you wanna hear right now, but it’s—”

“Swear to me.”

Ellie’s voice cuts through his, stopping him in his tracks.

She turns back, eyes burning into his, demanding,“Swear to me that everything you said about the Fireflies is true.”

Joel shifts on his feet, and you watch him carefully, your heart pounding hard in your chest.

And then he looks her in the eye and says: “I swear.”

The silence is thick, stretching too long. Ellie’s eyes flicker to you, searching, waiting.

Your throat is dry, your pulse hammering, but you force yourself to nod.

“I promise. ”

It feels like acid on your tongue.

Ellie doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Then, after a long moment, she nods.

“Okay,” she says.

[novella-november]

I have no idea why this needs to be said, but you can hate generative AI, love the Public Domain, love media preservation, hate the overbearing US Copyright system, and... still believe that Copyright Laws exist in the first place for a reason, (even if, thanks to Big Corporation Monopolies, it's been twisted into its current behemoth monstrosity.)

You can hate Large Language Models and still believe in Copyright Reform over Copyright Abolishment.

You can believe in Media Preservation and still believe that Plagiarism is wrong.

You can hate the current restrictive Copyright Laws without wanting to abolish them entirely.

You can love the Public Domain and still loath predatory corporations stealing everything they can get their hands on, to literally *feed the machine.*

These things are not mutually exclusive, and if you think that

"you can't hate AI if you hate the current copyright laws"

or that

"Hating on Generative AI will only give us more restrictive copyright and IP laws, therefore you need to normalize and accept generative AI stealing all of your creations and every single thing you've ever said on the internet!"

I just genuinely don't understand how you can say this kind of crap if you've ever interacted with any creative person in your life.

I'm a wanna-be-author.

I want as many people to be able to afford my written works as possible without restrictions, and I fully plan on having free ebooks of my works available for those who can't afford to buy them.

*That does *not* mean I, in any way shape or form, would ever consent to people stealing my work and uploading it into a Large Language Model and telling it to spit out fifty unauthorized sequels that are then sold for cash profit!*

You cannot support generative AI and turn around and try to claim you're actually just defending small time artists, and *also* you think no one should have any legal protections at all protecting their work from plagiarism at all.

Supporting unethical generative AI (which is literally all of them currently), protecting artists, and *completely abolishing* copyright and intellectual property laws instead of reforming them *are* mutually exclusive concepts.

You *cannot* worship the plagiarism machine, claim to care about small artists, and then say that those same small artists should have absolutely *zero* legal protections to stop their work being plagiarized.

The only way AI could even begin to approach being ethical would be if using it to begin with wasn't a huge hazard to the enviornment, and if it was trained *exclusively * on Public Domain works that had to be checked and confirmed by multiple real human beings before it was put into the training data.

And oh, would you look at that?

Every single AI model is currently just sucking up the entire fucking goddamn internet and everything ever posted on it and everything ever downloaded from it with no way to really truly opt out of it or even just to know if your work has been fed to the machine until an entire page of text from your book pops out when it generates text from someone's writing prompt.

And no, it's not just "privileged Western authors" who are being exploited by AI.

For an updating list of global legal cases again AI tech giants, see this link here to stay up to date as cases develop:

[rainix13]

It's Okay

masterlist

inspiration was this by @mommyownsmee

Natasha Romanoff x Agent!Reader

words: ~2k

description: after a few exhausting days and not talking about it, it gets too much to comprehend at last

Genre: angst / comfort (mostly comfort I think??)

Warnings: angst, mental breakdown, not really edited/proof read

It's litteraly 7am and I haven't slept yet, my brain is cooked

I don't know if anything makes sense

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡⋆｡°✩｡⋆｡✮ ⋆ ˚｡⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

Sighing you entered your shared appartment, bringing the groceries straight to the kitchen.

"Baby?" the familar voice came from the office and despite your exhaustion immediately a smile makes it's way to your lips.

You hung your coat over a nearby chair and before you could even turn around, two strong arms wrapped around your waist.

"Hey Natty" you murmured, letting yourself melt against her. "How was your day?"

The redhead grunted in response and adds "Paperwork and recruits."

You chuckled, knowing exactly what she means. You had them just before they went to training with Natasha.

"How was your day princess?" She asks kissing your shoulder.

You turned around , letting your arms hanging loosley around her neck "Was goood"

"Mh, you look exhausted" she stated between to short kisses but you shooke your head.

"Not more than usual" You lied with a smile. It's an easy lie, a casual one. Not necessary but you didn't want to ruin her good mood. And Natasha bought it.

After another quick peck you pulled away completely. "I'm just gonna take a quick shower and then I'll make dinner, okay?"

"Okay, I'll finish my work 'til then. What are you cooking?"

"Pasta!" You shouted over your shoulder, already halfway in the bathroom.

As the hot water runs down your body it felt like everything just washed off. The build up exhaustion faded as you stepped out of the shower, leaving you with something raw. Something that made you balance so close to the edge of a mental breakdown even you began to notice it. You sighed, somehow hoping to get rid of that weight that makes it hard to breath. You looked up, in the mirrior meeting your own empty eyes. Natasha was right, you do look exhausted. Like something drained the last bit off energy from your body. And if you were honest with yourself, you'd know that that's also exactly how you've felt for the last few days. But instead you've drowned that in even more work and exhaustion so it couldn't surface. Not until now at least.

A familiar dizziness formed in your head and you had to sit down. Have you eaten today? Yes, you had a sandwich for lunch. Or was that yesterday? No. Nevermind, it was yesterday.

Stop that's not relevant, you want to breathe. Why did that exhaustion suppress everything else? Why does this come up now? Can your emotions chill for a second? Can your mind please chill the fuck out? Why is this happening now? You need to get up again. You've got things to do. Why do your thoughts feel so loud. Just shut u-

"You alright angel?" Natasha's concerned voice pulled you out of your own thoughts immediately. You eyes snapped up to her standing in the door looking down at you on the floor.

"Uh yeah. J-just sound zoned out a bit" you desperately tried to safe it but your voice was far too shaky to appear convincing. Even if you're voice didn't give you away, you're trembling hands probably would have.

Natasha said nothing, instead she walked over, pulled you on your feet and into a hug. Instinctively you bury your head in her chest, holding in to her as the dizziness came back almost immediately.

Your senses all focused on her now. The faint scent of vanilla mixed with her shampoo. How you felt her breath against your scalp, her hands on your back and in your hair. You heard her breathing. You closed your eyes, trying to let her presence ground you. Tried to let everything overtune your own thoughts.

"What's wrong hun?" the pure softness and concern in her voice were the last straw to make everything fall apart.

Hot tears almost immediately streamed down your face, you buried your face in her neck and clutched onto her shirt. An unwanted sob escaped you and before you realized it would happen, your body collapsed against the redhead. She reacted immediately, picking you up, holding you as close as possible.

Natasha carried you to your shared bed, laying down with you still in her arms. Her heart broke at how small and helpless you seemed to be. How broken your sobs sounded and how desperately you hold on to her. Like you feared she mights disappeare if you'd let go.

"Just breathe, I'm here" she whispers. You try to follow her deep breaths and after a few tries you're starting to get there. Your breathing was still short and shaky between your sobs but less ragged now. "Overstim-" your voice broke off into another sob and Natasha tries to pull you even closer. "It's okay, I understand" You knew she did. It's not the first time you were at the verge of breaking down because people were just too much in that moment and it wasn't the first time Natasha was there to keep you in touch with reality. It was the first time you had a breakdown, especially that bad tho. The first time she had to see you like this and you didn't appreciate that. She wasn't supposed to see you like this, you're supposed to be there for her when she needed you.

While she got up and left you for a second, you went down that spiral, getting stuck in a cycle of 'Get your shit together' and 'She deserves better'.

But a moment later, before you can get too far with those thoughts on your own the redhead came back, helping you to put on one of her hoodies before she pulled you back into her embrace.

"What do you need angel?"

"B-being alone-" you choked out and Natasha immediately retreated. Not rushed but without hesitation until you held her back and she met your pleading eyes. "w-with you? i-if than m-makes sense" you asked unsure. Part of you didn't want her stay, didn't want her to see you like this. But the stronger oart craved the feeling of safety and acceptance. Craved the way she could ground you and keep you in touch with reality. She nodded, getting back to you "Don't worry, it makes sense. We can be alone together," she reassured you. She was glad you wanted her with you. Glad you trusted her enough to be so openly vulnerable.

You were hit immediately with gratitude but when you tried to speak again you're choking in your own sobs again, slowly growing annoyed at your own inability to exist. Natasha noticed the way your muscles tensed at the failed attempt, she could almost feel you slip away again.

"shh it's okay. You're safe with me"

"I-I it's just too much suddenly. The past days were so exhausting a-and I don't know. I kept it going and e-everything went okay a-and no one noticed" you finally managed to say.

"I've got you, don't worry" Natasha said, pulling you even closer to her, if that's even humanly possible, for a short moment.

"It's just so sudden. I- I-"

"shh it's okay. Just breath, mkay?" she created just enough distance to look you in the eyes "In and out, yeah?"

You take a shaky breath, hands still holding on to the redhead's hoodie as if your life depends on it.

She just holds you tight, one hand softly combing through your hair.

She knows that you don't actually want to talk right now, that words don't make it better. She knows that hearing things would just add to the chaos in your head. So she just holds you, letting you breath her in until you calmed down again. You close your eyes and relax. Her even heartbeat, her scent, her hand on your back. All of her grounded you and finally shuts down the thoughts in your head. You knew she wants to say that she loves you and that it's alright. And she knew that you can feel everything she didn't verbalize.

You let yourself dwell in the feeling of safety as your own heartbeat normalizes again.

"Thank you" you mumured softly, taking a last deep breath before you untangle your legs from hers and want to get up.

"Where are you going?" Natasha holds you back and searches for your eyes.

"Making dinner, Nat. Haven't cooked yet" you explain and try to loosen the grip the redhead has on you but to your surprise she pulls you back, and wraps her arms around you, your back now pressed against her.

"It's okay, Nat. Just dinner" you softly argue, your voice still hoarse from crying.

"Stop being my over independent strong girl for now okay? I love you. Let me take care of you today" she pleads, her nose burried in your neck. You hate worrying her, adding to the stress she already has.

You sighed in defeat and nod "Okay. But I'm fine, really"

Natasha just huffed, picked you up and throwed you over her shoulder. "Nat let me dooown"

But she shook her head "mmh no, your my little princess" You can hear the satisfied smile on her lips, making you giggle. "Nattyyy" You try to wiggle out of her grip, still laughing and finally she obliges. "Okay, okay stop moving"

She sits you on the counter, pressing a quick kiss on your nose. "You stay here, I make some pasta" leaving no room for an argument.

So you just watch her, sitting on the counter, dangling your legs. How she moved so effortlessly. In a strange way her calculated but simple movements like chopping onions or just stirring the sauce made you calm down even more. You began to feel the slight burn in your eyes from crying, the actual softness of Natasha's hoodie and how ut smelled exactly like her. The stress began to fade, letting you breathe again.

After you ate you end up in bed again, watching some show you didn't really pay attention to. Your head was buried in Natasha's chest still craving every bit of comforting, grounding touch. "I love you" you whisper so quiet you're not sure Natasha could hear it. Any maybe that wouldn't be so bad because you know that she's able to detect the silent apology with it

But of course she did. She pulled you closer once again, her hand finding it's way to your hair combing through it. "It's okay angel. Just...try not to overdo yourself, okay? You don't need to handle everything on your own" You sigh at the statement, burying yourself deeper in your girlfriends hoodie. "But I should. Especially when it's just fixing something that's my fault anyway. And it's okay. I can handle it ...most days" Your breath turned hot and tears welled up in your eyes again. "I should." You add, angry at yourself.

"That's not true" The redhead pulls away and cups your cheeks, forcing you to make eye contact.

"No one can handle everything on their own. We're a team, remember? You help me all the time. Patch me up. Mentally and physically. So why wouldn't I be here to do the same for you?"

"Because you already have your own stuff to deal with..." You mumble hesitantly. You don't want to be a burden. You don't want to annoy her with your stuff. Not when you can or at least should be able to handle it on your own.

Natasha sighs, pulling you back in. "Did or would you ever not listen to me or try and help me just because you have your own things?"

"No..." you reply not sure how to explain that it's different then.

"Will you tell me when it gets too much next time?"

You take a deep breath, tightening your grip around the redheads waist. "I'll try"

"Thank you angel"

"I love you" you said, this time not saying it as an apology.

"I love you too" Natasha answered.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡⋆｡°✩｡⋆｡✮ ⋆ ˚｡⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

[philosophicalparadox]

Similarly, literary analysis is a skill. It takes practice. And some of that practice inherently involves you being wrong or skewed. Bias is everywhere, but sometimes your bias informs your interpretation/perception in a way that’s just too far away from the reality — and with analysis, there is a kind of reality.

Which is precisely why literary analysis requires you to read a lot. It’s about pattern recognition, not opinion; literary analysis is more science than art, as the name implies, and while its rules aren’t fully understood, they nonetheless exist.

I see posts quite often in my neck of the woods (anime/manga) that neglects these rules while trying to understand the material through a heavily biased lens. This is usually because people neglect the most important rule: Culture Comes First. You can’t analyze the “data” in a piece of literature if you don’t understand what the “study” is — you have to weigh, by necessity, the cultural context of the work you’re looking at, because the patterns and themes that you are analyzing are not necessarily universal, and can vary from culture to culture. No surprise then that way too often I see people analyzing Japanese media through an American, usually, lens. Which has its merits, especially when you’re discussing popular media that reaches many people, or things that are shared, but nonetheless is a skewed perception that misses a lot of context giving patterns.

I also too often see analysis done as if it’s a journalist opinion piece, which to be fair, there is language in common between them, because again, biases must be recognized in any sort of qualitative study, but it fundamentally is not.

That isn’t to say that analysis that missed the mark doesn’t have merit; there’s a reason my literature classes always had us exchange and share our papers after grading. Different people have different strengths in pattern recognition, and what is noticed by one can be missed by another. It’s like peer review. In fact it IS peer review.

But gods does it IRK me when I see people who do the whole “my interpretation is the only right one” with analysis specifically, because, no, honey. That’s not how that works. Literary analysis isn’t just a fancy term your English teacher threw at you for fun. It has actual metrics. There are meanings behind the words Trope, Motif and Theme. I mean, there’s something to be said about an analysis that has good metrics and is widely agreed upon, because typically (though not always, courtesy cultural bias above) that means it’s “passed review” so to speak, but if you’re standing in a crowd shouting that you’re right and everyone else is wrong, odds are pretty good that you’re the wrong one. Or at least that you’re missing something on purpose.

Not “Only my reading of canon is correct” or “Interpretations are subjective and all valid” but a secret third thing, “More than one interpretation can be valid but there’s a reason your English teacher had you cite quotes and examples in your papers, you have to have a strong argument that your interpretation is actually supported by the text or it is just wrong and I’m fine with telling you it’s wrong, actually.”

[luveline]

hiiii was hoping you could write reader tries makeup for the first time and is a bit self-conscious about it with poly! Just something sweet and fluffy. Thank you, love your other fics btw.

The article you read said that this sort of stuff is best to attempt in small amounts. If you aren’t used to foundation, try a liquid concealer and a skin tint —that way you can spread it as thin as you like. It says foundation, skin tints, or any kind of face makeup tends to look ‘cakey’ at first because you aren’t used to it and neither is your skin, but makeup doesn’t have to look perfect up close. Honestly, it’s a friendly, assuring article, and it actually gives you the confidence to buy a skin tint, a concealer, a mascara, and a lip gloss. There’s even a cherry-scented finishing spray that promises to melt everything together. 

You figure you’ll try it all while the boys are out. That way, if it looks too cakey or bad or just plain silly, you can wipe it away and hide the evidence. 

You wet your little sponge as the magazine says. You’ve moisturised and waited for it to dry down. With a breath, you smooth the skin tint into the back of your hand and start to dot it into your face gently, a little all over. Acting fast, you pick up your sponge and dab it across your cheeks. 

It’s nerve-wracking, though it’s not like you can’t fix it if it goes wrong. You feel embarrassingly out of your depth, and you would prefer this goes well. 

The first issue is your nose. It looks a little cakey at the nostrils, the skin tint, so you wipe it with your finger and make it worse. Eyes wide, you dab it again with your sponge and relax when it spreads out. 

Neck, you think. The magazine said don’t forget to smooth it down your neck, or you’ll get a ‘tarty’ line. You dab it down and assess in the mirror. 

… it doesn’t look too bad. 

Smiling gently, you press a little of the lip gloss onto the back of your hand and debate the next tip. It’s a sheer one, and it can give a ‘pop’ of colour to your cheeks if you’re careful. Why not, you think eventually, tapping a little of it into the bell of your cheeks. 

Things are definitely going too well. You look odd, maybe, but the sponge is great. Everything smooths out. 

Mascara is much harder than the skin stuff. Your eyes water as the wand approaches. It takes ages to actually touch the mascara to your eyelashes, and then it looks sort of clumpy, spider-webby, but the article said you can wipe it off and try again. The second time you almost blind yourself, teeth gritted as you realise there’s mascara all under your eye. You take it off with a wet-wipe and dap the skin around your eyes with your sponge to fix the mess. It looks darker, still, but eventually you get the mascara on and your eyelashes look longer and… 

You smile at yourself in the mirror. 

You look really cute. 

You turn your face one way and then another, smile growing wider. Your skin looks even, your eyes look bigger, and— the gloss! You pick it up and squeeze some onto your lips, rubbing them together, cleaning the corners with your pinky finger.  

The door slams open downstairs with a colossal bang, and you jump so hard you send the mirror careening across and off of the bed. With the open door comes a wave of noise, laughter loud and ringing. 

“What have you boys done now?” you murmur to yourself.

You leave your makeup on the bed. For a second, you debate hiding it back in the pink drugstore bag and wiping the makeup off before heading downstairs. You look cute, but what if they don’t like it? None of them have ever told you to wear it before. Sirius wears it more often than you. He might have a laugh when he sees it. 

“Baby!” one of them yells, laughing hard enough to disguise their voice. “You have to come down here!” 

You fret. That’s Sirius calling, his giggling sweet enough to make you wish you were sitting in his lap, but suddenly you’re overthinking things. Just because you think the makeup looks alright doesn’t mean it really does, and the boys are already laughing. You don’t wanna give them another reason. 

“Are you up there?” Sirius calls again. “Sweetheart?” 

“I’m coming!” you call back. 

“I was getting worried you weren’t here! Come on, you have to see this!” 

You go without thinking. At the bottom of the stairs, James and Sirius are crowded together, their laughter beyond reason —there are tears streaming down James’ face from laughing so hard, and Sirius is clutching him as though worried he’s gonna fall over. 

Remus is laughing too, but he’s not so obscene about it. “Hey, Y/N,” he says nicely, “you okay?” 

“What’s so funny?” 

Sirius unfolds a newspaper you hadn’t noticed clutched in his arm. “Every time I look I’m sure I’ll piss myself.” 

You all look down at the newspaper. Immediately, James is whining and laughing so hard you reach out to steady him, laughing yourself as he falls into your shoulder. “Christ,” he squeezes out. “Life is so– so perfect.“

On the front page of the local Daily Argus is a full-colour photo of Lucius Malfoy being arrested, two police officers behind him, his wrists cuffed and his face wane of colour. 

DON'T THINK HIS FATHER WILL BE HEARING ABOUT THIS ONE —Lucius Malfoy, 26, business owner and young entrepreneur arrested for fraud and conspiracy yesterday night at his offices in the Sacred Families building. Malfoy, when asked to give a statement, said his father will be hearing about this, whatever that means. 

“But what’s–”

Sirius points at Lucius’ crotch, pointing out that his trousers are slipping down his thighs, and he’s wearing boxers with his girlfriend Narcissa’s face on them. Narcissa, as in, Sirius’ older cousin. 

“What the fuck,” you say with a giggle of your own. You hate Sirius’ family and anyone related to them, so seeing Lucius down for the count is especially satisfying. “You can see his–”

“I know!” Sirius almost screams, his laugh increasingly high-pitched. 

You giggle and begin wiping the tears off of James’ cheek. “You guys are too much,” you murmur. 

“We came right back to show you,” Sirius says. 

“I’m thrilled.” You tip James’ head up to finish cleaning off his cheeks. “That’s so funny, you’re terrible,” you say, beaming as James finally tears his gaze from the paper. The mirth in his expression settles, but his smile does this strange wobble before he’s holding you by the back of the neck gently.

“Fucking hell,” he says. 

“Don’t–”

“Fucking– You’re lovely,” he blurts out, tipping your head back, all the manner of someone who’s just struck gold. “What have you done?” 

“It’s just makeup.” 

This piques the interest of the other two, Sirius’ laughter finally petering out, and Remus stepping into the light to have a look. “Aw,” Remus says, “you look–”

“Fucking amazing,” Sirius interrupts, his head tipping to the side, his vengeful glee transformed into what can only be described as adoration, “you look fucking amazing, shit–”

“Her cheeks,” James says, which should make you laugh, especially when Sirius and Remus both hum simultaneous agreement, like there really is something special about them. 

“It’s just– I’ve never– it looks silly,” you get out. 

“It does not.” James rubs a hand down your shoulder, as though cleaning you up to better show you off. “Now this is front page material. When did you even learn to do this?” 

“I– today,” you say, heat emanating from your chest to the very tips of your ears. 

“It looks great!” James says, cupping your cheek. 

“Well don’t mess it up, Prongs!” Sirius says.

“It’s okay, it’s not like it’s for anything,” you say. 

“It’s for my camera,” Sirius says, attempting to slip past James to get upstairs.

Thankfully, Remus prevents him. “Stop,” Remus says. 

“Please,” you second. 

“I need to remember!”

“I’ll do it again,” you promise. 

Three boys melting. “You will?” James asks softly. 

You tip your face forward. “Sure, especially if I look better–”

“Hey, hey, who said that?” Remus asks. 

“Don’t be silly,” James says. 

“I really should have a picture,” Sirius says. “We can blow it up like a poster girl. We’ll have it in the bedroom.” 

“That is not funny,” Remus says. 

“Perfectly chaste!” Sirius denies. “Though how I’m expected to think chaste thoughts when she looks like that is another thing. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s practically obscene.” 

“Sirius.” 

Sirius gives you a smile, “I’m just teasing,” he says, though there’s a little bit of something in his dark eyes that says otherwise, just enough to make you shiver, pleased. 

James goes back to holding your cheek, and it’s much too warm now —you break away from the lot of them and make your way to the kitchen. 

“Where are you going?” Remus asks, to your surprised delight. 

“I need a drink,” you say. 

“Well, I’ll get you one,” Sirius says. 

“That’s okay, I think I can do it myself.” 

“But should you have to?” 

From behind you, you hear the subtle jab of an elbow and the less subtle screech of pain. “Fuck off, Prongs, you know she looks insane.” 

A boyish giggle echoes. “Front page for sure.” 

A more relaxed hum. “And now she’ll never wear it again, ‘cos of all the fuss.” 

You wouldn’t necessarily agree. It’s not like they don’t make you feel beautiful, Sirius stood in the doorway clutching his heart the day before yesterday when you got out of the shower citing a sudden shock from how “otherworldly” you looked while your hair was wet, James calls you beautiful more than he uses your name, and you catch Remus looking at you all pleased and flushed multiple times a week, but it’s still different to have had them all at the same time. So yeah, you’ll wear makeup again. You might even reapply the lip gloss you’ve nibbled off. Just to see what they think. 

[bwat5-blog]

Continuing The Cycle

**Spoilers For Arcane**

Let me say to begin with, that nothing in this post is to downplay or brush off Piltover's oppression of Zaun. There will be some who read that and still scream at me, that's okay. I just want to be clear.

Many people on here more insightful and intelligent than I have spoken on this already, but it has been sticking with me lately so I wanted to get my thoughts out.

I have been quite free with dismantling some of the inane attempts at criticism of Arcane in this space. But, I promise I do actually understand everyone is entitled to their opinion. After all, how we connect with and understand art on an individual level is one of the things that make it so special. I have never, and will never come for someone who is simply stating their honest opinion based on the actual content in a respectful manner.

Where my issues come in, have to do with these wide-spread critiques/takes/stances that so directly undermine the meaning of the narrative they are best ignorant and at worst malicious. And more often than not rely on omission of details that negates their stance, or fabrication of details to support them. To that end, what I am discussing today is the black and white thinking that has permeated the fandom, poisoning understanding and appreciation of all corners of that narrative.

LET'S JUST GET IT OUT OF THE WAY:

*Before we get into the Arcane content, we need to discuss where a lot of this is coming from. I am just gonna get this out here right now, and there are some people who are gonna keel over reading it but if you are one of those folks I might as well not waste your time*

Arcane is not the Israeli–Palestinian conflict.

It could not be more clear that this is where a lot of this is coming from. Let me be explicitly clear, this is NOT a deep-dive or analysis of this conflict. This thing is immensely complicated . If you comment here with a "IT IS NOT COMPLICATED ITS" sort of comment I'm sorry to tell you but you are wrong. The modern phase of this has origins as far back as the late nineteenth century and there is more going back even further. I don't care if its a straight fucking line. Something going back that far has more to it than the average nerd like me is qualified to speak on. Now, that being said, I do understand to a degree why this is happening. Not like this conflict has ever really been settled but in the last few years especially things have really been active and generating a degree of media content I don't remember seeing this level of in my short 32 years. So in a world where everyone (myself included) is so plugged in and enveloped by social media, a lot of us are getting a more direct look at this than we really ever have. And we analyze and connect with art through the lens of the world around us to a point. But we CANNOT do so exclusively. Trying to force a narrative into a one-to-one comparison robs it of a tremendous amount of meaning. Because no matter how complex and intricate this story actually can be. IT IS NOT REALITY. I'm not getting into it here, that would be pages and pages of writing and I'm here to talk about Arcane. But I'm going to say this because it applies to real life and the show both and will take us into my actual point today.

The idea that anyone on one side must always be good and justified simply because they are the oppressed, while the other must always be evil, is juvenile, naïve, and fails to grasp even a fraction of the complexity of human nature

Some of you are going to have an absolute seizure reading me say that that statement applies to real life as well. I don't care. It takes time, maturity, and meeting people from all walks of life to understand things are not so simple.

BACK TO ARCANE:

But, that being said time to get back to business. How does this all apply to Arcane?

"The show should have ended with a civil war between Zaun and Piltover!"

"When Zaun arrived during the last battle Jinx should have unloaded on the Enforcers and the Noxians both!"

"They ruined Jinx's character! WTF do you mean she apologized for killing Caitlyn's mother? Her mom was part of the oppressive system that ruined Jinx's life and brought it on herself!"

"Silco did bad things but it was all to gain power to protect Zaun!"

"Poor little rich girl lost her mom and acts like it's a reason to punish an entire city with warcrimes. The people of Zaun have been suffering worse for their entire history"

"Rebel Vi I miss you! How dare they make you care about people in Piltover!"

"The coward show runners made Zaunites into boot-lickers fighting for Piltover wearing Enforcer armor at the end!"

You get the idea. I have seen variations of these and many more time and time again. Zaun should have let Piltover fall or even attacked themselves. Caitlyn deserved everything done to her because she's of the Piltovan elite. Every terrible thing Jinx or Silco did was totally and completely justified because of Piltovan oppression.

Now there are many angles I could come at this from. My usual one is simply addressing the astounding lack of logic in most of these sorts of arguments. For example, I can rope all of the people saying Zaun should have let Piltover fall into one category. People who forgot about this guy:

Like he was just gonna "evolve" Piltover than call it a day and zoot off into space with his new buddies. Obviously not and the idea that he wouldn't immediately take Zaun as well then keep moving is completely laughable. But this sort of thing isn't my issue today. My issue is that those so zealously insisting the the show should have continued on a path of hate, death and destruction are completely missing the point.

I titled this continuing the cycle for a reason. So much of this show, revolves around this concept of the cycle of violence. Those who keep it going, those who suffer from it, and those who break it. And the issue I'm finding is that a tremendous amount of people have seemingly decided that anything people from Zaun do is justified, and anything people from Piltover do is not. When in fact, where they are born is irrelevant in this context. Because each and everyone of them has the choice to further the cycle, or to walk away.

Silco & Vander:

Vander continued the cycle when instead of forgiving Silco for his part (whatever it may have been, we never really get the whole story) in Felicia's death he tried to kill him. And Silco did the same when he took his revenge instead of walking away ending not only the life of the man who wronged him, but causing the deaths of two teenage boys, trying to have Vi killed and causing her imprisonment altering her life forever, and taking Powder as his own after obliterating her second family altering her life and the lives of all those she would hurt through her actions as well.

Caitlyn:

In Caitlyn we see all three. She was an admittedly naïve but well-meaning young woman who was victimized terribly by cycle of violence around all for thinking she could help. We then watch her heart-breaking transformation into being a part of it allowing her hate and pain to warp her into someone dark and vengeful. Then finally we see her laying down the hate for her mothers killer in favor of her love for the woman who means everything to her. Stepping outside of it and turning her back on that violence.

There are of course other examples. Jinx walking away, Ambessa choosing to continue the bloodshed even with her last child begging her to stop. the list goes on. My point in discussing this is that it doesn't matter where they come from. Characters from all over this story play a part both good and bad in the events that occur. And to properly appreciate and understand this tale and what it is saying we MUST recognize that.

Yes Silco was a Zaunite. No Silco was not justified in unleashing Shimmer on his own people. He was a revolutionary once, but he lost his way. In the end he died a violent drug lord who exploited his people for his own gain. He was not a hero.

Yes Jinx is a Zaunite. No, Jinx attacking the council was not a noble strike for her people against oppression. She was a terrified, mentally ill, grieving and angry young woman who lashed out in a moment of awful pain. And in doing guaranteed Piltovan oppression against her people. .

Yes, Heimerdinger was the father of Piltover and his neglect caused terrible problems for everyone. He also gave his life for a Zaunite rebel commander to help get him home. (I understand in the lore he's probably alive but we haven't seen that yet and they have for sure diverged so it isn't a guarantee)

Yes, Caitlyn Kiramman is the daughter of one of the high houses of Piltover, and played a part of the people of Zaun suffering under Ambessa's manipulations and cruelty. She also gave the leader of the Firelights the gemstone she was so determined to return, stood side-by-side with Vi and told the council to their faces they failed Zaun, and put her own body on the line to make things right against Ambessa.

And that isn't to say that any of those characters were all good or all bad. It's to say that they all are capable of both. Just like every character. To slap a Zaun sticker on Silco and a Piltover (or cop as so many of you are fond of) sticker on Caitlyn and give them a pass or not for everything they do based on that is simplistic and ignorant. These characters have so much to them that to reduce them to these easily digestible bite-sized pieces is to deprive yourself of that true weight of this story.

All that said, lets take another look at a few items from that list from earlier:

"The show should have ended with a civil war between Zaun and Piltover!"// At the moment where all of humanity was at stake, people came together and fought side by side to quite literally save the world

"They ruined Jinx's character! WTF do you mean she apologized for killing Caitlyn's mother? Her mom was part of the oppressive system that ruined Jinx's life and brought it on herself!"// In a moment of pain and clarity Jinx found herself speaking to someone she realized she horribly wronged. Someone who had been twisted into something dark and violent by pain and grief, a feeling Jinx knew all too well. So she said the most she could, it isn't a direct apology. But her remorse is clear. "

"When Zaun arrived during the last battle Jinx should have unloaded on the Enforcers and the Noxians both!"// Jinx went from someone hated and feared, who felt like she had nothing to offer anyone, who felt like she had failed or killed everyone who loved her, to riding into battle leading her people and bearing symbols of her loved ones into the war for all mankind. And although I and most agree she's alive, the last act we know she for sure that she took was to save the life of the older sister who loved her so much in her most dire moment. If she did die, Jinx died a hero.

CLOSING WORDS:

Arcane is many things. But it's humanity is its heart. I've said it many times and many ways, but good stories... in this case great stories matter. They stick with us. Because long after the giant battles, the wolf monsters, and shiny blue magic rocks have faded, its the humanity you remember. The sisters fighting desperately to hold on to each-other in a world determined to rip them apart. The lovers from different worlds finding hope in each-others arms. Brothers betraying one another, a daughter having to take her mothers life, the list goes on. But when we rob these characters and this story of all of that, when the flash is gone, what's left?

I haven't done a long one in a bit and I feel like this is a bit rambling so I apologize. To those who take time out of their day to read anything I have to say I appreciate you more than you know. Feel free to share your thoughts! I love discussing this show. And in closing will leave you with one of my favorite quotes.

“It's like the great stories, Mr. Frodo, the ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were, and sometimes you didn't want to know the end because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad has happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing this shadow, even darkness must pass. A new day will come, and when the sun shines, it'll shine out the clearer. I know now folks in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going because they were holding on to something. That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it's worth fighting for"

- JRR Tolkien

[pwblant]

24. the end

it’s the next day. yesterday, you were terrified to open your phone, dreading the harsh reality you expected from the fans. the whole time, you couldn’t shake off the terrible thoughts about the future of the café, but you tried to keep your cool. you spent the night at wonbin’s place, and he kept you company, constantly reassuring you that everything would be okay. but if things went wrong, then what? what happens next?

while eating breakfast, you glance at wonbin, who’s sitting next to you, and finally ask the question that’s been weighing on your mind. “bin, your company would force us to break up if they don’t approve of me, right?”

he barely hesitates. “y/n,” he says firmly, looking at you. “we’ve already talked about this before. stop thinking about it because it’s not going to happen.” then, as if to emphasize his point, he pulls the hair tie off his wrist and gathers your messy hair into a ponytail.

“whatever happens, we. are. not. breaking. up. i wont let it happen.” his voice is steady, full of determination.

the room goes silent for a few seconds until you reach over to pick up your phone on the counter.

“this is killing me,” you let out a shaky breath. “i’m going to check twitter.”

wonbin exhales deeply. “alright, but remember y/n, i’m always going to be here by your side no matter what the result is. i’m really just hoping for the best at this point.”

with a lump in your throat, you open the app, expecting to see nothing but harsh words. except… they aren’t there. instead, you’re met with an overwhelming amount of kindness.

your hand flies up to cover your mouth. “oh.”

wonbin immediately tenses. “what? what’s happening? is it bad?” his voice laced with concern.

shaking your head, you stand up, barely able to contain your excitement. before you know it, you’re throwing your arms around him. “i’m so happy, i’m so happy.” your words come out muffled against his shoulder.

he lets out a breath of relief, hugging you tighter. “so i’m guessing it’s good?”

you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes shining. “there’s still a few bad ones, but i saw so many positive responses. does this mean….”

he studies your face, smiling as he wipes away the stray tears that escaped your shiny eyes. then, as if he can’t help himself, he leans in, closing the space between you. his lips brush softly against yours—gentle, but full of relief and love. warmth spreads through your chest, and you smile into the kiss, your heart melting.

this is it. no more hiding. no more fear. it’s just the two of you, together, just as you should be.

when you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, a breathy chuckle escaping him. “yes. yes it does mean what you think it does. i’m so excited,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing your cheek.

his eyes soften as he cups your face. “we don’t have to hide anymore. i can hold your hand in public, take you on dates, and post you without worrying about what people will say.” he pauses, his lips curling into a small grin. “rrr y/n. i’m glad you’re stuck with me now. i’m never letting you go.”

you roll your eyes, but your heart flutters all the same. “i wouldn’t want to be stuck with any other black cat anyway.” with a smirk, you pinch his cheek in return.

masterlist | previous

TAGLIST : CLOSED

@binoyu @sqh3e @antosaurius @yoursyuno @jvngw0nlvr @dorritoni @dudekiss3r @tadadw @choc0br3ad @kukkurookkoo @haobubbles @aruzhananas @holyhaech

a/n : aaaand this marks the end of Can’t Get You! thank you to everyone who came to support this fic and i’m looking forward to create even more things for you guys to read in the future. it’s kind of sad that it finally came to an end, but i hope that everyone enjoyed it like how i enjoyed making it🫧 boynextdoor fics next?? jkjk, unless…. 👀